


…In Health

by S_Faith



Series: In Sickness and In Health [2]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-18
Updated: 2008-06-23
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Same story, parallel point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: The flip side of "In Sickness and…"
> 
> Disclaimer: V. v. much not mine.

_Friday_

It is often said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line; however, even if it were possible to drive in a straight line between Holland Park and Borough Market, the anticipation alone would have made it one of the longest distances imaginable. This was the thought Mark Darcy had as he waited for Bedale Street to come into his sights, and when it did he felt free to breathe again.

A weekend, a lovely weekend away with nothing but countryside around him; no distractions of city life, no obligations, nothing but the beautiful woman who'd agreed to be his wife by his side, in his arms, in his bed…

 _There are the fine details to work out though_ , he thought nervously as he parked the car along the kerb. His lawyer's brain broke down and analysed every detail of their reunion at Inns of Court, kept reminding him that though her enthusiastic reaction had pointed to an affirmative, she had never actually said 'yes' when he'd proposed. Once she did say 'yes'—he reassured himself that she would—then he would be content with nothing more than holding her in his arms and lavishing her with affection in the privacy of their country suite. There were, after all, quite a few weeks to make up for, especially the two since she'd returned, as his own schedule had prevented him from giving her the attention she so richly deserved.

As expected, she was not waiting on the doorstep as he had asked her to do when he'd called before driving over. It was, however, impossible to be cross with her; he knew her well enough to know she was not likely to change her ways (at least not overnight, or even two weeks). He went to the door and rang her bell; after a few moments the intercom sounded out with her crackling voice. "Yes, Mark," she said frantically, before he'd even had a chance to say his own name. "I'm on my way down. I swear." He grinned.

When she did appear, he took her into his arms and briefly kissed her. "All ready then?" he asked.

She nodded. It struck him then that she looked a little pale and tired, but chalked it up to having had a hard day at work, a wild night out the evening before with her friends, or a combination of both. He hoped her friends had kept their word and hadn't given away the surprise: his intention of proposing again, properly, with the ring to back it up. They knew only because he'd persuaded them to help him pick it out.

He picked up the bags she'd brought down with her—a toiletries case along with a full-sized, wheeled suitcase, prompting him to wonder why she'd pack so much for a weekend mini-break—then slipped his arm around her waist as they walked back to his car. 

A continued concern pervaded his thoughts during the drive after seeing her run her fingers across her forehead as if to feel for the source of a headache, wrap an arm about her midsection as if to keep nausea at bay, but that concern was held in check with her words of reassurance. 

"I'm fine, Mark. Stop worrying. Just tell me more about where we're going," she said, her expression one of anticipation.

"Well…" he began, "a lovely little place in Wellesbourne, a converted country estate. All the comforts of home and then some: spa, steam room, sauna, salon…"

She smiled, resting back in her seat, and her look was filled with such love he could not help but grin.

After another period of easy silence, he glanced over to her, seeing her drifting between sleep and wakefulness. She really did look exhausted, but he knew they were almost there, and wanted to see her face when they rounded the curve and the manor house came into view. To satisfy his curiosity as well, he asked, "Did you have a rough day at work?"

She sat up a little straighter in her seat, as much as the safety belt would allow. "Oh, all my work troubles can be summed up in two words: Richard Finch. That man could work the Dalai Lama into a raging, boiling urge to kill. Is it too much to ask—"

"Bridget," he interrupted.

"—to have a sane, reasonable boss—"

"Bridget," he said again with greater insistence, "look. We're here."

He glanced to the side and saw her take in the gorgeous stone building, heard the gasp as they approached at what felt like a snail's pace as the size and the grandeur of the place became very clear. Her voice was breathless when she spoke. "Oh, Mark. It's like a dream come true. Or a movie set."

He chuckled, pleased to know that she approved, and he brought the vehicle to a stop in front of a grand staircase leading to the main door. As if on cue a livery-clad youth appeared from nowhere to assist them in bringing their bags inside, and in short order they were checked in and being brought to their room.

"Ohhhh," Bridget sighed upon seeing the room. "It's amazing… the view of that lake is incredible, and—" She giggled. "—look at this bed! It's huge!" The bellhop deposited their bags and beat a hasty retreat as she went over to the bed and hopped to sit upon it, then bounced up and down. "And soft!" Mark fought the urge to go to her and ravish her senseless at that very moment as he watched her hair tickle against her face, her bosoms moving beneath the fabric of her shirt, but could feel the corners of the little ring box (or so he imagined) pressing into his chest from its place in his breast pocket.

"How do you feel about having an early supper?" he asked to distract himself from his thoughts. It was barely five (they had each taken off early from work due to the drive), but knew the sooner they ate, the sooner he could take her for a romantic, twilit stroll, and ask her once more (with slightly more class and dignity) to be his bride.

"Oh, yes, that'd be lovely," she said, ceasing bouncing, looking up at him with cheeks rosy from her efforts, her eyes shining more than they had at any point that day.

 _Dinner, Darcy, then proposal, then mad, passionate sex; control yourself_ , he thought.

"Hope you brought something to dress up a little in for dinner, not that you don't look lovely as you are," he said. "The dining room is quite stately, and there's nothing like rising to the occasion."

She grinned. "I think I have just the dress. Give me a few minutes to change and freshen up my makeup." She hopped up, opened her bag and pulled out a lovely cotton frock and a pair of matching white pumps, then took them and the toiletries case to the bathroom with her. "I'll be just a few minutes," she said with a grin, then closed the door behind herself.

He watched the door for signs that it might open again for forgotten stockings or a hairbrush left behind, and when it didn't, his fingers slipped into this breast pocket to draw out the small box nestled there. He opened it on its hinge to gaze at the lovely ring, the ring her friends guaranteed him she'd love.

 _She will love it_ , he reassured himself, _and she will accept it_.

He snapped it shut and put it back into his pocket, still smiling, then strode to look out the window, over the estate's grounds, and the peace of the setting set his passions at ease. It was true that he wanted her very badly at present, but that's not all he wanted from her; to simply have her there, have the comfort of her embrace, was more than enough; to know that she had accepted him back, after his moronically insensitive behaviour, made him happier than he could have dreamed.

It may have set his passions at ease, but it had not killed them altogether, as her reappearance at the bathroom door served to remind him. She looked absolutely stunning—the dress was flattering in the extreme, and the shoes served to accentuate the shapeliness of her calves—and a broad grin overtook his features.

"Do I look all right?" she asked.

"Better than all right," he said, coming near to her and giving her a quick kiss; no time for lingering kisses lest he lose himself completely. He extended his elbow. "Shall we?"

………

He had thought dinner absolutely delicious, but it hadn't escaped his notice that she'd picked through it almost tentatively. When he asked she'd told him it was quite good, and he had no choice but to believe her as she had ultimately finished it.

Their server came by to sweep up their empty plates, and offered to bring by the dessert tray. He demurred to Bridget, who agreed with a smile, and he thought nothing more of it.

That is, until she suddenly stood, excused herself abruptly, and dashed for the exit, towards where the ladies' was.

After a beat or two, he stood, advised the server that they would be passing on dessert after all, then followed to where she had undoubtedly gone. He suppressed the swelling panic he felt—was she ill? Delayed carsickness? Food poisoning? A heretofore unknown food allergy?—and paced outside the ladies' loo until the door opened and she emerged.

He looked her up and down, and was surprised at how wan she looked, even more tired and pale than before. He embraced her around the waist and pulled her close, but not so close she could feel the box. "Bridget," he asked quietly. "Are you feeling all right?"

Pulling away from him, she affirmed that she was, nonchalantly and absently pushing her hair from her face with her fingers, blaming the rapidity with which she'd eaten (a blatant falsehood), or the wine she'd drunk. He had no choice but to take her at her word.

He raised his hand to push her hair out of her eyes again, and was alarmed at the heat of her skin. He pressed the backs of his fingers to her forehead. "You feel a bit warm."

She explained it away (her annoyance at his continued questions becoming clear) by having just dashed to the loo to throw up, and though it seemed flimsy at best, he accepted her explanation. 

When she asked if they could just go back to their suite, thereby skipping dessert, the pleading nature of her gaze brought to his attention that her eyes were red-rimmed. He asked if she'd been crying.

She refuted this wholeheartedly, saying she was the happiest woman in England, rising to kiss him to prove it no lie.

After confirming his status as happiest man, he continued, "The only reason I asked was because of your eyes. They look a bit red."

"Probably from the puking."

It occurred to him them that a bit of fresh air might do her a world of good as well as serving to provide him his opportunity to pop the question again, so he asked her if she'd rather take a walk than go back to the room, and she accepted, taking his arm once more.

The sun touched the leaves of the trees with beautiful golden highlights, the breeze rustling Bridget's skirt as he led her down the path bound for a gorgeous little patio lined with statuary. With every step the statues became more and more distinct, and he felt his heart race a little bit faster; when he got her there he would turn her so that her face was bathed in warm sunlight, take her hands in his, and ask her once more to spend her life with him with words he'd been rehearsing in his head for almost two weeks running.

At last they reached the patio; her hands were in his, her eyes bright and shining, her face upturned to him. He began to speak.

"Bridget, I wanted to affirm that my intentions the day you returned from Thailand were true, that I didn't ask anything I didn't want to and have every intention of following through." He released her hand to reach into his pocket.

As he did, she leaned forward into him heavily as if she'd just avoided a fall, her free hand narrowly missing the jewellery box there and landing squarely on his chest. She chuckled. "Sorry, the road's a bit choppy."

He furrowed his brows. "Choppy?"

"Paving stones keep jumping around. Very rude of them," she said, laughing again, tilting back. "Make them stop, Mark; they'll listen to you. You're good at bossy. Oof." She listed forward and he caught her.

Absolute panic gripped him fresh. "Bridget, what's wrong with you?"

"Fwah! Nothing wrong with me. Whole world is moving around more than expected though."

He took her roughly around the waist and started walking her very quickly back to their room, all the while frantically trying to remember if he'd seen any medical facilities during the drive, because this was surely too acute to be the effects of intoxication.

They made it back to the room without further incident, though it seemed as if Bridget had forgotten how to walk while wearing pumps, her ankles constantly twisting beneath her. Once safely inside, he helped her out of her clothes, got her to sit on the bed; almost simultaneously she went completely limp. He guided her to lie back on the pillows as he felt her forehead again; she was definitely raging with a fever. He placed his fingers against her throat, felt the pulse there, steady and strong, thank God. He went to the bathroom, got a hand towel, and ran it under icy water. After wringing it out, he brought it back to daub at her face.

As cool rivulets of water from the damp cloth ran along the hollows of her throat, she came to, blinking as if her lids were very heavy. "Oh Daddy, make them stop," she said in a pitiful voice.

He fought to keep his voice calm. "Stop what, darling?"

"Punching my stomach. My head. It hurts." She turned her head to the side, and he returned the cool cloth to her forehead and her throat. "Twisting my legs so I can't walk…" Her eyes fell closed again.

"Oh, love…" Though worried for her health, and planning even now on how to get some fever reducer into her to help bring her temperature down, he wasn't sure if he was angrier at her for not mentioning she wasn't feeling well, or angrier at himself taking her protestations about her health at face value.

He went to the loo, digging into her bag for some ibuprofen (grateful for once for her over-packing) and getting a glass of water so that he might get the pills down her throat when next she returned to consciousness, judging from the way she started calling for her mother and father again. He hastened back to her side. When he approached the bed again he sat beside her and moved the cloth around on her face.

"Darling, I need you to try to take these pills. They'll stop—" He swallowed hard. "—They'll stop punching you if you do."

Feebly she raised herself on her elbows as much as she could, nodding. He put the pill between her lips then raised the water glass. She took a few good swallows, then fell back to the bed, smacking her lips a few times as if she were parched. Her breathing went shallow again, indicating a lapse back into unconsciousness, and he ran his fingers roughly back through his hair. What was he to do? He had no idea where the nearest hospital was—or was he overreacting? Was this just a typical fever?

As he pondered this question her body began to rock, like she was coughing, and it took him a moment to realise that the wet, gurgling sounds were much more than a cough. He leapt and grabbed the bedside trash can then quickly turned her on her side. She woke at the movement, then vomited clear liquid into the small trash bin, the remnants of the ibuprofen easily discernible against the dark, empty container.

She furrowed her brows as if she were in great pain. "They didn't like the pills, I guess," she said, her voice more child-like than ever. "Ohh," she added, clutching her stomach again. He wasted no time scooping her up into his arms and bringing her to the toilet, just in time for another round of vomiting.

He held her close, sitting her on one knee as he knelt on the other, reaching for a dry towel to help clean her up. "Better?" he asked tenderly.

"No."

With that she leaned forward and threw up again into the toilet.

He sat there with her on his knee for a few more minutes after determining the purging had come to an end, then gingerly got to his feet and helped her back to bed.

"Oh, I'm tired of fighting them, Daddy. Want to sleep now. Freezing cold." He helped her to lie back down and though her skin was warm to the touch, her teeth were chattering and she was shivering. He pulled the covers up over her, rose up to wet the cloth anew, then folded it in fours length-wise and laid it across her forehead. He watched as she fought off sleep, smiling slightly. "I love you," she said, and though it touched him deeply, he wasn't certain to whom exactly she was directing her love.

He didn't step away until he was certain she was actually sleeping—not unconscious, not preparing to vomit again—and when he did he began to pace. He hadn't felt so helpless in a very long time. Dare he risk putting her in the car in the state she was in and taking her… where exactly? If only he'd taken the time to become more acquainted with the greater Stratford area—

He froze in mid-pace as the answer hit him right between the eyes. _Yes, yes of course_ , he thought, pulling out his mobile, searching through his list of contacts for one he hadn't made in far too long, a friend of his practising out here…

"Do my ears deceive me? Mark 'Bloody Big Shot Fancy Pants Human Rights Barrister' Darcy?" came the teasing voice through the earpiece. For a moment Mark was absolutely astounded that his friend had somehow psychically divined who he was until he remembered: caller identification.

"Yes, it's me, and I know it's been far too long, but I need a favour."

"Sorry, no longer offering my services as Hugh Carri, Pimp to the Rich and Famous," he continued in the same playful vein.

"I'm serious. I'm out in your neck of the woods and facing a medical dilemma that I'm not sure how to handle."

"Call 999, for God's sake, not me," he said, sounding genuinely panicked.

"I don't think it's anything that requires paramedics. It's my—" He hesitated. Without the ring securely on her finger he was not able to bring himself to call her his fiancée. "—girlfriend. She's fallen suddenly ill and I'm not sure what to do."

Hugh was all business, passing up an opportunity to ask about said girlfriend: "What are the symptoms?"

"Fever, headache, stomach ache, and something about being unable to walk," he said, remembering her fever-induced ramblings. "Tried to give her something to bring down her temperature but she was unable to keep it down."

"Sounds fairly run of the mill. Anything else I should know?"

"No, except—" He paused to consider his next words. "I know this doesn't sound all that serious, and I would not be nearly so concerned but she… well, she just got out of a Thai prison."

"Oh." Mark did not like how the timbre of Hugh's voice had changed from serious to sepulchral. "How long ago?"

"About two weeks. She was in for ten days."

"Ohhh." There it was again, that ominous tone. "Listen, where are you staying?" 

"Why?"

"Give me a few minutes to make a quick stop, and I'll come on by."

After a moment's hesitation Mark gave him the hotel name and room number.

"Thanks. I have a feeling I might know what's wrong. Kind of a specialty of mine. Sooner I test, the sooner we can get treatment started."

Something about the way he said this alarmed him. He had thought—rather, hoped—this would turn out to be something relatively minor, but the reaction his friend was having made him extremely worried.

Immediately after disconnecting with Hugh, Mark lifted Bridget's suitcase to rest on the bureau and unzipped it, intent on finding her something to sleep in. It did not take long to realise that she had not actually brought pyjamas, which brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. Of course she'd had the same expectations of the weekend as he had, underscored by the one piece of intimate wear she had packed: a lovely black silk and lace camisole set he had never seen before. He rubbed the silk between his thumb and forefinger, feeling wistful, yet he knew what carried a greater importance. Her health.

Next, he went to the house phone and picked it up, ringing the concierge.

"Yes, hello," said Mark in a very quiet tone. "This is going to sound like a very odd request, but I need a pair of pyjamas…"

After a brief explanation, the concierge advised they might have something they could provide. The pyjamas—flannel, grey and most definitely cut for a man—arrived in short order, and Mark was very grateful. It only remained that she should wake, for getting her dressed in them whilst she was still out like a light was less preferable than having her participation in the process. 

He glanced over to Bridget, saw her sleeping, saw the sheen of fevered sweat on her brow, and sighed. He crouched down beside the bed, and began repeating her name, gently shaking her shoulder.

………

He'd managed to rouse her and get her dressed in the pyjamas, and reined in his worry and aggravation but still questioned (more impatiently than he'd intended) why she hadn't told him she was sick and needed to cancel. At her insistence that she was well prior to their departure, by the plaintive expression on her face, he realised she was not lying. As they talked he also learned that she had no memory of the encounter on the patio, the walk back to the room, or the serial vomiting, which appeared to unsettle her as much as it did him. When she burst into tears (likely at the unavoidable realisation that she really was sick), he felt almost overwhelmed with his own emotions as he embraced her tightly. When he did speak again it was barely above a whisper for some minutes.

He urged her to drink some more water then tucked her back in under the bedcovers; within minutes she'd drifted back to sleep. He sat for many moments just watching her. He guessed that maybe more of the fever reducer had gotten into her system than he thought, for while she still felt warm, she was at least grounded in reality, and for that he was thankful.

He considered the situation logically. Either he would come down with the sickness himself, or whatever it was she had wasn't communicable by contact (casual or otherwise). With a sinking feeling in his gut, he suspected it was the latter.

Mark heard a quiet rapping on the door sooner than he expected, and rose to find his old friend standing there with his medic's bag. Wordlessly he invited Hugh in, closing the door. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your coming tonight," Mark said in a very quiet voice as Hugh set down his bag.

He grinned in that easy way he'd always had. "I had an ulterior motive besides the Hippocratic oath. I wanted to see this new girlfriend for myself, one worthy of taking on a mini-break out in the country when you can't even find the time to ring up an old friend."

Mark laughed guiltily, and gave Hugh a sheepish look. The girlfriend query had come at last. "That she is. And it isn't the first one we've had…" He drifted off, preferring not to think of the end result of the previous mini-break.

Hugh raised his brows. "Impressive, Captain." He then cast his eyes towards the bed. "Adorable," he said, glancing at Mark again.

Mark decided to let the use of the long-standing nickname slide by; keeping his voice low, Mark replied, "Happen to think Bridget's one of the most beautiful women I've ever known, but I'll grant you she's not looking her best at present."

Hugh punched him lightly and chuckled. "I'll grant _you_ that possibility. Bridget, eh?"

Mark nodded. "So what is it that you think she might have?"

It was a little spooky how quickly Hugh could slip into a professional demeanour. "There are a couple of possibilities here. Right off the bat, I'd say leptospirosis. Matches the symptoms I've heard you describe so far. Only transmittable via contaminated food or water, and while pretty unpleasant, it's easily treatable."

Mark felt slightly relieved in that he might not be getting sick himself but still pressed on: "Or…?"

Hugh seemed reluctant to answer. "Dengue fever's also got a lot of those symptoms and a few more that don't easily present. Was she around a lot of mosquitoes?"

Mark blinked. "Um, I don't know. Wasn't the sort of thing I thought to ask."

"What were the conditions like in the prison?"

Mark closed his eyes, recalling the stench in the air, the dank atmosphere, the dirt everywhere, as if he were actually still standing in the receiving cell. "Not exactly sanitary," he admitted. "In her words, 'the toilet facilities are well below par.'" 

Hugh smiled. "I can't wait to be introduced to this girlfriend of yours." Something then caught his attention and his eyes returned to where Bridget was resting. "Looks like the patient is awake," he said drolly.

Mark watched as Hugh examined the love of his life, taking her temperature, listening to her breathing and heartbeat through the stethoscope, looking into her eyes; he asked delicate questions about Thailand and prison, and pressed her for other details she might have for him about how she felt.

It wasn't until he issued his likely diagnosis—'leptospirosis'—Mark felt moved to breathe again. His seeing Bridget's shaken reaction at the thought of having blood drawn stirred him to action, reassuring her that it was a necessary evil despite her hatred of needles. The blood was drawn without incident, thank goodness.

Mark was just mentally processing a question from Hugh about whether or not she could be pregnant when Bridget literally turned green, and not due to the subject matter. He leapt to his feet and whisked her off to the loo once more, arriving just in time to avoid making a mess on the floor. He found the idea of Bridget apologising to Hugh for racing off to puke somewhat comical.

Hugh then announced he'd have results in the morning and would return, but not before using the old nickname once more. Mark grimaced. He didn't need Bridget pestering him for that old story.

She of course did, and he was thankful to see her smiling, but he demurred actually explaining it, instead switching the topic of conversation to her illness, and to letting her know that if she needed anything, she needed only to ask.

Not that this kept her from reminding him that she'd get the story from him eventually.

Finally convinced he'd done all he could do that evening, he stripped himself of his own clothes save his boxers and got into bed, hoping for at least a little good sleep. She still felt very warm to him, but with the way she clung to the arm he'd slipped around her waist, he figured she must have still felt chilled. It wasn't until he heard her softly snoring that he allowed himself to be overtaken by sleep.

………

_Saturday_

_It's nice to have goals_ , he thought wearily, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes in the dark of their room. The past few hours had been a nightmare, literally and figuratively: after she had an hallucinatory dream in which he'd starred as Daniel Cleaver, after talking her down from the tree she'd climbed too far up into, Mark helped her into and up out of her cool bath then tucked her back under the covers. After all of this, he found it impossible to get back to sleep. Rather than toss and turn and risk waking her, he opted to rise, dress in his robe, and take a seat in one of the two chairs near the window, his mobile resting on the table before him.

He'd lost count of how many times he had his hand on the mobile, poised to dial Hugh again just to hear some reassurance that what was happening was normal, but then he worried that Hugh would tell him it wasn't. Mark wasn't sure he was up to hearing that.

 _Never mind that it's the middle of the night_ , he thought; he didn't want to disturb a friend who had already gone out of his way to help. Mark just didn't like feeling so out of control. To counter that, he decided to start making a record of her illness—her temperature readings, her bouts with nausea and vomiting, even her treatment (whatever that was to be)—with the thought that maybe if there was a pattern, he would see it, or at the very least, Hugh would see it, recognise it. He diligently jotted every little detail down, from when he'd first noticed her touching her forehead as if in pain, to the number of times she'd thrown up.

He sighed, setting the pen and the little notebook from his jacket breast pocket down. He looked at his mobile, and as he did, a terrifying new thought entered his head: what if Hugh's reassurances were exaggerated? What if his opinion of her having the lesser of the two evils was not as certain as he'd led Mark to believe? The reaction he'd had at saying the name "dengue fever" and his obvious reluctance to reveal any details did not sit well with Mark.

He took his mobile in hand, but instead of calling Hugh, he brought up a search engine on his mobile web browser and searched for "dengue fever." He soon saw why Hugh had been mum on the subject; he fought the urge to jump up, throw back the covers, strip her of the flannels and search every square inch for bruises. Her eyes had been red and rheumy but he wondered if that qualified as "petechial haemorrhaging." He honestly couldn't say if she'd been to the toilet more often than usual because he had barely seen her all week, but surely he would have noticed (or she would have said something) if she'd begun to spontaneously bleed…

He switched the browser off in a huff and threw the phone into the cushion of the facing chair. What had he hoped to accomplish by looking that up? It was no wonder Hugh hadn't wanted to give him details; he was now more worked up than ever. Running his hand over his face, he glanced over to the bed, saw the steady rise and fall of the duvet.

 _Darling Bridget_ , he thought, taking a few calming breaths. _At least you're resting. Maybe Hugh will have been wrong and you'll wake up with nothing more than a case of the sniffles._

He didn't really think it was true, but he had to console himself somehow as he watched the sky begin to lighten over the lake.

At the sound of his mobile hitting the floor with its vibrations, he startled awake to find the room fully bathed in sunlight. Bridget was still fast asleep. Mark got to his feet and grabbed the phone to find a text message from Hugh: _Am in car park._

There was no time to shower or shave, but there was time to hastily dress before he heard the light rapping on the door. He went to answer it to find Hugh, as expected. He looked slightly puzzled. "Did I wake you?" he said quietly; looking his friend up and down, he added with a little smirk, "Rather, did you _sleep_?"

Mark glanced to his watch, saw that it was close to seven-thirty. Hugh's jesting actually lifted his spirits, because surely he would not kid around if he had bad news to deliver. "Not well, and not for long," he replied, trying for an equally glib tone.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't apologise. You're the one doing us the favour." He stepped back to allow Hugh in. "So don't keep me in suspense. Do you have the test results?"

Hugh nodded, then grinned. "It's as I suspected. Leptospirosis."

Mark sighed heavily, leaning back to steady himself on the corner of the bureau, feeling even more relieved and grateful. If he weren't so bone tired he'd have jumped up and down with joy; he hoped a broad smile could convey his joy. "Thank goodness."

Hugh raised a hand and patted Mark's shoulder in a comforting manner. "Been researching online, haven't you?" he said with a smirk.

Mark chuckled; how well his friend knew him. "So, what's the next step?"

"Treatment."

"Obviously."

"Straightforward though unpleasant. Antibiotics and amino acid supplements to replace what she's losing by vomiting."

Mark considered this; it didn't seem so bad. "All right. What's the schedule?"

"A shot of doxycycline twice a day and one glutamine tablet every four hours—four a day—for seven days."

As he processed this information, Mark felt himself go pale on Bridget's behalf. He knew how she felt about needles. "Is there an alternative to a shot?"

"I'm afraid not," he said. "With the vomiting an oral treatment is not really viable."

"But you mentioned tablets."

"Those aren't oral, either," he said grimly.

Mark understood immediately, and he sighed. "This is going to be a tough sell," Mark admitted.

"If left untreated, we're talking jaundice, liver and kidney damage, meningitis, internal bleeding, all crescendoing in hospitalisation, permanent organ damage and inevitable death."

Mark pulled his mouth into a taut line. "I see."

"I thought you might."

"So. The shot. Do I have to aim for a blood vessel?"

"No. This is much easier. It only needs to be injected into a muscle. A big muscle is best. Like, er…" Hugh's eyes darted to the bed again. "…the _gluteus maximus_."

Despite the impending treatment horror, he felt himself chuckling involuntarily, imagining Bridget's reaction to having to take repeated shots in the arse. "All right."

Hugh then described precisely how to sterilise the injection site and administer the shot, demonstrating with an invisible hypodermic. He also advised to alternate injection sites. "Allows the antibiotic time to properly dissipate," Hugh explained.

"Okay," said Mark, looking to the peacefully sleeping form on the bed before turning back to Hugh. "Shall we break the news to Bridget?"

"Before that happens, one other thing you need to know," Hugh said. "The glutamine—the suppositories—have an added little complication."

Mark was almost afraid to ask.

Hugh continued, "Now, the tablets have a dual purpose: to help fight the infection and to help the body tolerate the high dose of antibiotics. Without them the doxycycline would wreak absolute havoc on her body. That's why the last three glutamine tablets are on Saturday, since the antibiotics will still be coursing through her system for a day after the last shot."

"Understood."

"However," he said solemnly, "due to the nature of the contents of the tablet, as soon as the medicine begins to enter her system, there will be a rather unpleasant burning feeling, and the body will try to… eject the pill. Therefore, you'll need to hold it into place for up to five minutes to ensure it completely dissolves. Otherwise, total misery as opposed to merely unpleasant."

"Are you saying…?" Mark began, drifting off, sure that his face had slipped into a mask of dread.

Hugh nodded. "Precisely. And she should stay lying down for a little while afterwards, not like she'll be getting up wanting to do a jig immediately following." After a pause he added, "Sorry, mate. I know it sounds rather ghastly, but she'll be completely well soon enough if you stay on course."

"In a week's time," Mark said. Despite it all, the thought of her being well overrode any apprehension he might have felt in having to administer the treatment.

It was then that Mark heard his name called out in a raspy whisper.

They went over to the bed, Hugh picking up his bag on the way. Mark smiled tenderly, then went over to the bed, took a seat and held her hand as Hugh delivered the diagnosis. By the expression on her face he knew she was hardly receptive to it being the good news that it was. He hardly blamed her; it wasn't as if he'd told her what it hadn't been. If Mark had anything to say about it, she would never know. He would instruct Hugh later not to say a word.

He sat quietly and listened to Hugh explain what the treatment was, advising that shots were required; he would write down her schedule into his notebook at the earliest opportunity. 

Just then, before he'd described the other half of the treatment, Hugh hastily announced he had to leave, claiming an appointment; Mark realised that awful duty would be left to him. _Wouldn't be surprised if there were no appointment_ , Mark ungenerously thought.

He hadn't gotten that chance to get a word out on the subject when she became visibly ill again, clamping a hand to a mouth, and reflexively he reached for the bucket that hotel staff had been so kind to bring them during the night. It tore him up inside to watch her in such obvious distress, and he used the time it took him to clean out the bucket afterwards and rinse a new facecloth with cool water to calm himself so that he might be a pillar of strength for her.

He would have to be, to do what he was about to do.

He padded at her face with the cool cloth then took her in his arms upon returning to the bed, holding her close as her body racked with tremors, swallowing hard to quell his own emotions. At the point her breathing sounded relatively back to normal, he pulled away, brushing the pads of his fingers along her cheek. "We should get started so you can get well."

She nodded, but instantly also appeared to look afraid. He knew it was due to the needles, and her comments confirmed as such: "Surely modern medicine has come up with some alternative to… medieval torture."

He looked down into her big blue eyes, his frustration at odds with his love for her. He tried to think of which terms to explain it in. Unfortunately they were too close to the forefront of his own thoughts: "This is not… _Star Trek_." Grasping her shoulders, he continued. "If not for the vomiting you could take an oral dosage. But look how successful we were in keeping an ibuprofen down. Hugh would not have me give you a shot unless he thought it absolutely vital."

As expected, another attempt at compromise was quick to her lips. "Couldn't we wait until the vomiting stops, and then I could take pills? It can't possibly last much longer, right?"

He looked away, his mind racing. How could he get through to her without completely terrifying her? The conclusion he rapidly came to was that he could not. He looked back to her, and in the most serious tone he'd taken all day, he explained to her all of those reasons Hugh had given to him why waiting for treatment was quite simply not an option.

Bridget looked shell-shocked; he saw her eyes grow moist with tears. "Oh."

Tenderly he added, "So I think you can handle a needle prick twice a day for a week, can't you?"

She blinked, sniffed, and nodded.

He stroked her face again. "That's my girl."

It was then he began to go through the details of dispensing the treatment as he fetched the little white bag Hugh had left behind with the medicine in it, even as he mentally cursed the man for abandoning him before doing so himself. The shots she was already aware of; the fact that they were best done in the arse she was not, and the momentary look of horror on her face had not gone unnoticed. She prompted him for information on the other treatment, the glutamine; he feared his tone had unconsciously gone a little too morbid in describing what it was, and especially as he advised her it was also not an oral treatment. He silently indicated it was not an injection, leaving her to draw her own conclusions about the method of delivery. From the way her face went pale, he suspected she guessed correctly.

He breathed in, hoping to steady himself as he let her know the fine details of the glutamine treatment, that the tablet had to be held in place. It was obvious at first she thought he was kidding, but at his unchanged expression, his unblinking eyes, she looked quite like a child who'd been separated from her parents at a busy shopping centre: wide-eyed, helpless, scared, even desperate.

With the hypo and alcohol pad at his immediate side, Mark took her hand in both of his. He would leave the close embrace and tender caresses for after the fact; for now, he had a job to do. "Bridget, I can't tell you how ecstatic I am that it's not something more serious, and when you're well, I swear, I _will_ make it up to you. But for now, you have to have your antibiotic shot."

After her reluctant acceptance and his reiteration of the schedule—twice a day for the shot, one pill four times a day—he leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "Believe me, I'm hardly going to enjoy myself doing either of these tasks."

"I know," she said sulkily, sighed, then added, "but if anyone's going to stick me with a needle or shove a pill where the sun doesn't shine, I suppose I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

He was surprised to find himself chuckling; he loved how she could make him laugh in almost any situation. "It _must_ be love. Now come on, stubborn girl."

She sighed again. She divested herself of the pyjama bottoms then rolled to lie on her stomach; though the top was very long and obscured all but the very lowest curve of her rear, it was difficult to regard her and not think how he'd have to mar the lovely skin there with injections fourteen times altogether. "Let's get this over with," she said.

Gently he traced his fingers over her backside, reasoning that the highest part of the curve would be optimal as it was where the muscle was thickest. He took his hand away then grabbed the wrapped alcohol pad, tore it open, then swabbed the spot he'd chosen. He heard her catch her breath.

He hoped it didn't mean she was going to be sick again, so he asked her how she was feeling.

She replied, "Nervous."

He laughed lightly as he unsheathed the hypo then held it upright to depress the plunger a little to clear the needle of air, trying not to think too hard about his next step. "I meant are you on the verge of vomiting again."

She advised she was not. _No time like the present_ , he thought. He told her to hold still, then he poised the point just above her skin, then pierced the skin and pressed the plunger the rest of the way in.

He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in, and he pulled the hypo out, pressing the alcohol pad to the injection spot once more. "There," he said, reassuring himself as much as he was reassuring her; "Not so bad, was it."

As she turned her head to look at him, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze, and smiled to her, conveying how proud he was that she hadn't so much as cried out with the needle's pierce. She smiled wearily in return. He'd seen enough _ER_ to know the proper disposal of medical waste, recalled seeing a red sharps container in the white bag, and so recapped the syringe and put both it and the alcohol pad in the container.

As he contemplated his next duty, he realised he wanted— _needed_ —to hold her in his arms probably as much as she wanted to be held, so he sat back against the pillows and pulled her up onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her as he stretched his legs in front of him.

"What about… the other thing?" she asked, looking up to him with furrowed brows.

He hardly wanted to admit he needed to brace himself mentally before this next onerous task, so in the lightest tone he could manage he said, "I'm resting before the big fight."

She offered a sarcastic, "Ha, ha."

He closed his eyes, dropping his head back, and offered a half-truth: "I'd like to hold you in my arms for a few moments while you're not post-retch, trembling and gasping for air. It's deeply unnerving."

He felt her warm breath through the light fabric of his shirt as she rested her cheek against him. Quietly she said, "I'm sorry I'm so much bother."

He briefly tightened his embrace, then placed a kiss on the top of her head, stroking her hair tenderly as he stilled the emotion in his throat. He could not have her know how deeply all of this was affecting him. At last he said, "Darling, you are not a bother. The illness is a bloody inconvenience, to be sure, but it wasn't anything within your control. And were our positions reversed, I know you'd do the same for me."

"I would be a catastrophe giving you a shot," replied her muffled voice.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes," she said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes more; he could hear her breathing in deeply then exhaling. He was so thankful for even this moment, considering what could have been: his being oblivious to her feelings for him, instead thinking she'd completely given up on him and gone for Daniel instead; her being in a desolate, filthy prison on the other side of the world for the next ten years, subject to leptospirosis and worse…

Following that particular line of thought, he said softly, "If you must apologise for something, apologise for the appalling conditions in the Thai prison, as that is likely where you were infected."

"Okay," she said. "I'm sorry they kept me in such a shithole."

He abruptly laughed, immediately loving her more than he ever thought possible.

She then lifted her face to look at him again, a very serious, verge-of-tears expression on her face. "I'm sorry for chucking you, I'm sorry for Thailand and Fucking Jed—and I'm especially sorry for Daniel, for you thinking—"

He lifted a finger to her lips. "Shhh. Don't rile yourself," he said before dropping down to place a quick kiss on her lips, pushing thoughts of anything more right out of his head by looking directly at the white sack of medicine. "Well. Let's get this over with."

He slipped out from beneath her as she laid once more on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow like she'd done earlier. He considered it was not the optimal position for what he had to do. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, hating the tone of his own voice as he told her—nay, commanded her—to lie over his lap for the treatment. He expected resistance, after all, and was fully prepared to pull her into place, hold her down or worse. He would not allow her to refuse the treatment.

To his surprise, even though she was clearly unhappy about it, she did as he asked. "This is so… humiliating," she muttered. "I feel like I'm four."

As he pushed the pyjama top up, he ran his hand over the small of her back and smiled; he could not help but think how caring for her had rather been like caring for a sick child, but he still admired the decidedly not-four view. Softly he assured her, "It's only me, love," then leaned down to place a tender kiss on her bottom, opposite where he'd just injected her, to comfort and soothe her. Her skin felt very warm against his lips. "Just relax."

He felt her muscles go considerably more slack; he murmured his approval as he reached into the bag for the bubble pack of pills. He popped one out and held it in his hand, hoping to bring it up to his body temperature, hoping it might be easier on her if it were, then explained why he was doing so, reiterating the detail about having to hold it in place, which he immediately regretted at hearing her pathetic reply: "You needn't remind me."

He inhaled and exhaled deeply. He was as ready as he'd ever be. "I've got my eye on the clock," he said. "Just stay relaxed." He placed his hands on her bottom, then moved the tablet closer.

Unexpectedly she asked, "Mark? Is it big?"

He stopped, then explained, "Not any bigger than a normal tablet. Do you want to see it?"

Quickly she said, "No." She pushed air out between her teeth. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready."

To her credit, she only made a hushed gasp as he slid it into place; that is, until the moment when the medicine must have begun dissolving into her system, when she cried out softly and her muscles went very tense. He could only think how terribly small and vulnerable she looked and he stroked the small of her back with his free hand, whispered tender words of encouragement to her. He realised that caring for her—that her allowing him to care for her—in such an intimate manner meant a level of trust greater than any relationship he'd ever had, which struck him as especially poignant considering he'd expected such a fight from her about this.

He felt her body began to relax again, heard her breathing became more even, just as he shifted her to lie on the bed so that he could stand. He pulled the duvet over her, telling her to stay lying down while he washed up in the loo. He saw her nod an assent into the pillow.

He went directly for the sink. The flow of the hot water over his hands, the lather of the soap as he scrubbed them clean, didn't help to wash away how badly he felt to have to give her the required treatment, that he'd have to do it so many more times. Even still, it was better than her being in a hospital for who knows how long with an intravenous drip and a platelet transfusions (he'd only skimmed the treatment for dengue fever on his mobile browser; it was enough to skim). He turned off the water, patted his clean pink hands dry with a soft cotton towel, before glancing up to look at himself in the mirror. He saw with some alarm what Hugh had been talking about, what had prompted the wordless, surprised reaction from Bridget herself at his own appearance: he looked wretched, ragged, in desperate need of rest and a shave.

He blinked, brought the damp towel to his face, then set it down. Maybe now that her first dose was working its way through her system, they could get a good bit of sleep in.

 _Sleep,_ he thought. _An excellent idea_.

He left the bathroom and headed immediately for the phone to request a wakeup call until just before the next treatment at noon.

He slipped in beside her and held her close to him, his feelings of remorse swelling again. "I'm sorry," he whispered close to her ear.

She turned to look at him, her voice tremulous as she spoke. "That was horrible, but I hardly blame you."

"I know, but I'm sorry all the same. Especially since we'll have to do it again in four hours."

He felt her shudder with the thought, and he tightened his embrace in response.

"Who did you call?" she asked.

"The front desk. Asking them to ring us at eleven forty-five. Because I was thinking we should try to sleep," he said, fighting a yawn. "You know, take advantage of the no-vomiting stretch."

She could only murmur a "Mmm" before quickly (and very much to his relief) falling off to sleep. Shortly afterwards, he was sleeping too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The address of [The Globe](http://www.allinlondon.co.uk/clubs_bars/venue-940.php) is 8 Bedale Street.


	2. Chapter 2

_Saturday_

Mark's eyes popped open and instinctively he knew that he had woken before the call, had not slept through it. A quick check of his watch confirmed the time to be eleven a.m., and the rumbling in his stomach told him he would be unable to fall back to sleep. He gingerly slipped out from beside her and placed a call to room service for a sandwich, some chips, and a black coffee. "And some orange juice," he added, thinking she might like to have something not only cool to drink but good for her.

He went into the bathroom to use the loo, and caught his reflection once more. It had scarcely been a three hour nap, but the improvement to his overall appearance (despite still needing a shave) was quite marked. It helped too knowing she was on her way to recovery. They had quoted him a twenty to thirty minute turnaround time on room service, so he dared not shower just yet. Instead, he took a seat on the bed beside Bridget. He raised his fingers to brush a sweaty frond of hair from her face. He might have been imagining it, but he thought she looked better too.

As he watched her sleep, he thought about having only one more day here; his thoughts then turned to the logistics of not only the long drive home fitting in with her treatment and her propensity for nausea and vomiting, but treating her and still keeping to both his schedule and hers while in London, when he had a brilliant idea: Why not just stay here to recover?

The more he considered the notion, the more he liked it. Yes, convalescence in the country. Fresh air, peace and quiet, and he could focus his attention on her health and nothing else. He would have to make arrangements as soon as possible.

The knock at the door signalled the arrival of lunch, and he eased himself off of the bed in order to allow them in. The young staff member set the tray down on the small table near the bed, and just as quickly left. The smell of the food hit him like a freight train; he swore he took off a quarter of the sandwich in one bite. He didn't ordinarily indulge in chips but something about the crispy, salty potato wedges really hit the spot. The coffee was brewed to perfection, fresh and not at all bitter.

He had tucked away about half of what was on the plate when the phone began to ring. Bloody wake-up call. He'd forgotten to cancel it. He swept the receiver up and thanked the front desk before hanging it up, then turned to see the ringing had awakened Bridget. As if it weighed ten stone, she lifted her head and turned to look at him. He hastened to her side, placing a kiss on her forehead, bracing himself for the inevitable.

He offered her the orange juice, which she accepted gratefully, guzzling down a good amount in one swallow, then reminded her it was time for another treatment. Her expression darkened and she hesitated to comply, but in the end she did and without a fight. He hoped the lucky streak would remain with him.

When he emerged from the bathroom after washing his hands again, he saw that she'd fallen back off to sleep. _Poor darling_ , he thought, though it was good for her to sleep so much. It meant the medicine got a chance to work.

He finished his lunch—the chips had gone quite tepid but were still edible—then decided to pop into the shower to clean himself up properly and shave.

It wasn't until he stood under the hot water of the shower tap that he pondered a statement she'd made to him in jest as she prepared to receive her treatment; when he'd teased her about her reluctance to lie down by threatening to wrestle her into place, her automatic, suggestive response reminded him once more about her shared expectations for the weekend. It made him that much more wistful for the delay in a proper reunion, even though he knew it would come in time. Although he missed her terribly, he was hugely grateful for the intimate time they'd had before he'd gotten so busy with work. Now, though, the recovery of her health was of paramount importance. Everything else would take a back seat.

After shaving and dressing in fresh clothes he emerged from the bathroom to find that Bridget was stirring. He saw the contents of the orange juice glass had dwindled and he was happy that she'd taken it all in. He sat on the edge of the bed, raised his hand to comb his fingers through her hair, and called her name.

She opened her eyes suddenly.

"How are you feeling?"

She blinked sleepily. "Very tired."

He just wanted to scoop her into his arms and hold her close; instead, he only nodded and spoke. "That's to be expected. Your body's fighting off the infection. I see you finished your juice. Very good." She smiled up at him tiredly. "Is there anything else you want?"

To his delight, she asked for more things to drink, but she couldn't seem to decide between water, apple or orange juice.

"I'll get one of each." He stood again, walking to the phone on the desk.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Me?" He'd hardly given his needs a thought, aside from sleeping and eating. Half in jest, he said, "I could do with a pint, but otherwise I'm fine."

Her eyes, however, were wide and mournful. "But you must be bored out of your skull tending to the invalid here."

He smiled. He had to disabuse her of this notion, regardless of the fact that it was not his first choice of activity. "I'll admit it wasn't how I wanted to spend my time this weekend… but you're ill and there's nothing to be done except to see that you get well."

And get some more juice. He picked up the receiver and dialled room service, ordering orange juice, apple juice and water for Bridget, and for himself, a bottle of ale and a packet of crisps. They told him to expect them in a half-hour or less, which he then passed along to her after he hung up.

The question remained, what could they do to pass the time while she was awake?

He admitted: "I didn't exactly pack any reading material…. Um. Would you like to watch the telly?" She shrugged; he chuckled. "You must be ill if you're forsaking the telly."

"There's never anything good showing on Saturday afternoon. Oh God." She went pale, her mouth dropping open slightly. "What time is it?"

He knew immediately the reason why she'd become panicked. "It's about two. You have a reprieve before your next dose." The relief that washed over her face made him chuckle again, before he turned his thoughts once more to occupying themselves. "We could play chess. I'm sure there's a chess set somewhere in this hotel."

She admitted that she could not play chess. Instantly he offered to teach her.

She fixed him with a serious look, raising one eyebrow. "You could also try to teach a pig to sing, but we both know how that would turn out."

He laughed out loud and conceded the point. 

The decision was made to borrow a movie from the hotel— _Sneakers_ was chosen, in the end—and as they waited for their drinks and movie, Bridget got up and used the loo on her own, dressing in a hotel robe. She looked so tentative as she walked that it was an effort not to go to her side and guide her to the toilet, but because she looked so proud at being able to do it on her own he was able to resist. The sharp knock at the door signalled the arrival of the beverages so Mark was further distracted by dealing with that, also taking a moment to power up the telly and the DVD player, putting the disc into place. She returned from the bathroom, shed the robe and climbed back into bed; he took the opportunity to change into clothing more suitable for lounging, then patted the pillow and put her drinks on her bedside. His beer and crisps remained on the tray close to him. 

Everything was perfect for an afternoon of movie viewing.

He hit play on the DVD remote and pulled her close when his fingers brushed across her very bare hip. Immediately realising his mistake, he pulled his hand away perhaps a little too quickly, placing his fingers instead against her forearm. In apology he pressed a kiss into the hair at her temple, then reached and took a long drag from the bottle of beer.

She settled into is embrace, resting against his chest, watching younger versions of the main stars hacking very, very old computers. They had barely apprehended young Cosmo when he heard the distinct sound of her softly snoring.

Inwardly he chuckled. At least they hadn't chosen something he wasn't interested in seeing, and at least he had taken advantage of the toilet himself not too long ago.

As he watched the film, his earlier thoughts about staying the week came back to him. He would need to make those arrangements soon to ensure they could stay in the same room through next weekend, as well as calling Giles to advise him of the change in plans. He'd also have to call Richard Finch on Bridget's behalf, something he both loathed and looked forward to doing. There was also the matter of her sleeping apparel, and finding things for her to do when she wasn't asleep, enough to last a week's time.

Despite not liking the thought of leaving Bridget's side, he realised he would have to head for civilisation.

The movie was ending before he knew it, and he realised it was time for the third glutamine treatment of the day. He roused her awake and as before, she did not put up a fight. He was extremely thankful she had not as yet, but thought wryly that his luck would not hold forever.

After cleaning up, he changed back into trousers then returned to the bed to offer her one of her glasses of juice. To his delight she drank down a pretty respectable portion. He stroked her cheek again and asked, "Do you mind me stepping out for a bit? Will you be all right?"

"Sick of me already?" she taunted playfully. Though she was smiling, she still looked quite exhausted.

"You know that isn't so," he said softly. "I'd just like to take care of a few things. And I promise to be back in time for—well, be back by eight." He cursed himself for the misspeak, and he could see her expression change to one of conflict. Ah well. He didn't really need to go; they were things he could take care of from the room, undoubtedly. "Never mind. I'll stay."

"No, go on. I'll be fine, really," she said, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'll probably only be sleeping anyway, and that's not very exciting for you."

"If you're sure."

She nodded.

He could not, however, resist a tease. "You know, the last time I asked you if you were sure about something, you went funny and feverish."

She pouted. "Mark, go _on_ already. Don't make me get out of bed and kick your arse."

He agreed, laughing softly. She must have been feeling a little better if she was making silly threats. He made a point to remind her where everything was, well within her reach: her bucket, the fever reducer, the glasses of juice and water, the telly remote, and her mobile phone. "If you need me, call me."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

He laughed again, and bowed to kiss her before leaving the room.

His first stop was the front desk. Within minutes he'd secured arrangements through the following weekend. He then headed for the car park, and each step closer to the car was more hesitant than the last; he realised he had no idea where he was going.

Well. What were friends for?

He pulled out his mobile and called Hugh.

"Mark?" came the worried voice on the other end. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine," he assured. "I was just about to head out for a little bit while Bridget slept to pick up some necessary items and am appallingly unfamiliar with the area. I need your help. Are you busy?"

"Not at all, just coming off shift. What do you need?"

"Well." He leaned against the vehicle. "Some nightgowns for Bridget. The flannel pyjamas from the hotel are three times too big for her."

"Presumably," Hugh teased, "you want the sort for actually sleeping in."

"Very funny," he retorted, though he was laughing all the same.

Hugh was silent for a few moments. "Just 'round the corner from my favourite pub there's a little boutique that sells the loveliest cotton nightgowns. Seen them in the window. Seem perfect for recuperating in without being too granny-ish."

It did indeed sound perfect. "Can I meet you somewhere easy to find so you can take me there?"

"As a matter of fact, the main road into Stratford from where you are passes right by the hospital. I'll meet you right out front. Did you have supper yet?"

"Not yet," Mark admitted ruefully. "Though it is a bit early."

"I'll pick us up some sandwiches. What else do you want to get?"

"Something for Bridget to read."

"Books?"

"More like magazines. I'm not sure she's up for literature in her state."

He heard Hugh chuckle. "I think we can find a corner shop open at this time of day."

"And… roses and chocolate."

He didn't know why he sounded so sheepish at admitting he wanted to bring the love of his life some pretty flowers and sweets, but Hugh seemed to understand. Mark could hear the smile in his voice as Hugh said, "Know the perfect place for that too. But no chocolate."

"What? Why?"

"No dairy whilst on the doxycycline."

He was glad at that moment she hadn't been able to take in more than apple or orange juice. If he'd given her coffee… "Anything else I need to know?" he asked gruffly.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Keep her inside at least until the fever breaks. She's very susceptible to other disease at this time."

"I'm glad I asked," said Mark wryly.

"Don't mention it," Hugh said brightly.

They said their goodbyes and as he pulled out of the car park, he hit the speed dial on his phone and rang up Giles, giving him the very short version of why he and Bridget were staying in the country longer than anticipated: "Bridget's not well."

"Nothing serious, I wager?"

"No, nothing too serious. It's just easier on her to rest out here, you know?"

"Of course. We'll be happy to take your work on, Jeremy and I, and Rebecca of course can take care of the bureaucracy of day-to-day things…"

"Can't thank you enough. See you next week."

He disconnected, then punched in buttons for directory assistance. The operator provided a home number for Bridget's boss.

"Richard Finch speaking," came the neutral-toned nasal voice.

"Mr Finch. I don't believe we've met. My name is Mark Darcy."

At the sound of Mark saying his own name, he swore the man gasped. "Yes," said Finch hesitantly. "I mean, you're right, we haven't, Mr Darcy. I've, uh, heard of you. Barrister. Human rights. Aghani-Heaney."

Mark smiled a little evilly. It sounded to him like Finch believed this to be a professional contact. No need to disabuse him of this notion. "Yes, yes, that's right. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, regarding an employee of yours. Bridget Jones."

"Oh, of course, of course." Mark heard a shuffle of papers, then something that sounded like a cup of pens falling off of a desk. "How can I help you?"

"As you may know, she is also my girlfriend, and God willing, my future wife."

He actually heard Finch swallow, and swallow hard.

Mark continued with particular emphasis, "As a result of her _work-related_ stay in Thailand, Bridget has taken rather ill."

"Oh. I—I'm so sorry to hear that. She can take as much time as she needs, paid leave, of course."

"That's very generous. I expect she'll need at least a week. Possibly two," he added on a whim.

"Of course," he simpered. "Two weeks paid leave. Whatever she needs. Only have to ask."

"I'll bear that in mind if we need more than the two."

"Send her my well-wishes," he added abruptly.

"I will. Good day."

Mark disconnected, and with a residual smirk hoped he'd made up for all of the torture Finch had put Bridget through the time she'd worked for the man. He only wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner.

………

Stratford's hospital was not hard to find, nor was his friend standing in front waving like a lunatic. He pulled up along the side of the road and Hugh dashed across the street to climb into the passenger seat. "Long time no see," said his friend. "Off to the nighties, shall we?" He handed Mark a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water, keeping one of each for himself. "I'd save the food for later. I can't say with certainty what time the shops close."

Mark could just start to feel the first signs of hunger, but set the sandwich down.

"Roast beef and provolone. Lettuce and tomato. Mustard. Wheat roll," said Hugh.

"You're evil," groused Mark as he pulled away from the kerb. "Tell me where I'm going."

He directed Mark to a little shop not too far from the hospital, tucked away in a back street next to a framing shop and a tobacconist's. Mark told himself he'd have to remember where it was, particularly when he saw the selection inside. Their clothing was gorgeous. Especially catching his eye were what appeared to be hand-painted silk dresses. There was a white and green one there that he thought would look quite lovely on Bridget.

In the end, though, he chose three similar white cotton nightgowns with floral designs in blue, green and burgundy. He didn't even have to think twice on the size; he knew the dimensions of her body almost as well as he knew his own. Hugh only looked to him with one eyebrow cocked in query.

"I know they'll fit," Mark said in explanation.

"You're scaring me a bit," Hugh replied.

They left for the corner shop next, and he chose two magazines whose titles were all too familiar to him. Hugh tried to hide his amusement but was not successful.

A little too defensively, Mark said, "She's very well-read. Used to work in publishing. One of the first times I met her was at a book launch amidst the likes of Salman Rushdie, Jeffrey Archer—"

Hugh interrupted, "You don't have to justify buying these to _me_. After all, I've been known to watch an episode or two of _Top Gear_ in my time. And then of course there was _Star Trek_ —"

Mark chuckled, interrupting him before he could continue: "True enough."

The last stop was for the flowers. The florist presented Mark with a dozen roses of the deepest red; she explained that they were an heirloom hybrid with a very fragrant bouquet yet a fairly hearty vase life.

Mark smiled. "I'll take them."

They exited the florist's; Hugh made a show of checking his watch. "Record time, mate; record time. Not even five-thirty. Well done, you. As your reward, have your sandwich."

"You're too kind."

They climbed into Mark's vehicle and each tore into their sandwiches, washing them down with their bottles of water.

"So how is Bridget doing?" asked Hugh between bites.

Mark nodded, swallowing. "She's doing well. We've had one shot and three glutamine pills."

"Any trouble there?"

"None at all."

"Were you expecting any?"

"I was."

Hugh grinned, seeming to instantly know the understated nature of that reply. "How about I stop by in the morning, see how she's doing, and bring you a little breakfast to boot?"

Mark grinned. "Yes, that'd be very nice indeed."

They finished eating and as Mark brushed crumbs from his shirt, he asked, "So where's your car? Can I give you a lift there?"

Hugh pointed to a car park on the corner. "I'm actually just parked right over there, but thanks."

"No, thank _you_ , for running these errands with me. You saved me a lot of time and frustration."

"No worries. It's always good to see you." With that, Hugh opened the door and got out of the car. "Have a good night. See you in the morning."

"Cheers," said Mark in reply.

The drive back took a little longer than the drive to Stratford due to needing to make sure that the roses (in their vase in the back seat) didn't topple over. As he pulled into the hotel's car park, he gathered the flowers up in one arm and the carrier bags over the other. It was awkward, to say in the least. One of the hotel staff, a boy not much older than twenty-five, seemed to think so too, and offered to assist him to their room.

Unfortunately, the young man seemed to be under the impression that the room was not occupied, and entered without preamble. Mark barked for the boy to wait: "Let me make sure she's, um, all right before you go barging in there."

He heard her voice call back, "I'm decent, if that's what you mean."

The boy had the grace to be mortified at his misstep, and he apologised profusely.

Mark calmed himself when he saw Bridget was in the bed, lying there with the covers up to her waist. "Quite all right," Mark said, clearing his throat. "Thank you."

The boy bowed then left; Mark was more interested in the gleeful expression on Bridget's face, the soft tone of her voice as she looked up to the blooms. "These are so lovely, Mark; thank you. I'd get up but my head's woozy…"

"It's all right. I'll get you some pills if your stomach's okay."

"It's okay."

"Have you been awake long?"

"No. Just had a call from Shazzer, that's all."

"Ah." He hoped like hell that Shazzer hadn't ruined the surprise of the ring, and decided quickly to change the subject, intending on distracting her with what he'd carried in besides the flowers. "So. Not a single comment?"

Her face was pure confusion. "What, about Shaz?"

Did she honestly not see the bags he held? He stared at her, willing her to catch on, when she suddenly did. Her face brightened a thousandfold, which was a tall order considering what the roses had just done.

"Mark! What's all this?" she asked excitedly.

He smiled and said, "I thought you might like a little something to cheer you."

Her cheek dimpled adorably when she smiled that broadly.

The first one he gave her held the nightgowns. As she raised the blue one from the bag, he explained, "I thought you might have grown a little tired of the men's flannels."

Her smile did not abate, though her brow creased as she realised there were multiples in the bag: "Three?"

"Well," he said, "since we're staying longer than anticipated—"

Unmitigated shock: "What?"

"I've made arrangements to stay through until next weekend. I thought you might like to recuperate out here in the country, away from the stresses of everyday life in the city."

She was obviously touched, but as expected, she asked, "What about work?"

He explained that he'd spoken to her boss for her, which sent her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. He also advised that his office had been more than sporting and happily took on his work for him.

"Remind me to get them all thank you presents," she said, not unemotionally.

The next bag had the most recent editions of _Hello_ and _Marie Claire_. She grinned and seemed to silently agree that anything more would have been too much to handle in her state.

He thought he ought to confess about the chocolate, lest he be thought of as completely unobservant. "I would have bought you a Milk Tray but I thought the temptation whilst you're on antibiotics would have been too great. Can't have dairy due to the doxycycline."

"Ah." Her gaze travelled over the magazines splayed amidst the nightgowns, then up to the roses. In a quiet voice he could barely hear, she said, "You are too good to me."

"I feel I have a lot to make up for," he said.

The confusion was back on her face. "What are you talking about? My chucking you was my own stupidity."

He looked down. Of course she would take all of the blame, and it wasn't justified. "Well, no, not entirely. I didn't do more to assuage your fears regarding Rebecca. And for that I am sorry." He sat by her again, embraced her shoulders, kissed her cheek. "But that wasn't what I meant. I meant having to do such… unpleasant things in the name of your health."

Surprisingly, she laughed. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this caused another spasm in her stomach, and he dove for her bucket. Thankfully, his reflexes hadn't suffered for the long day he'd had.

………

The evening plans were thus: taking of temperature, cool bath, and the final treatment of the night; then a try at chicken broth and housekeeping at nine to change the bed sheets. The temperature-taking, while not a complete triumph, at least showed movement in the right direction: down. He'd had his generous sandwich with Hugh and so was not in the least bit hungry, but Bridget said she was in the mood for some soup. He ordered both her dinner and a change of sheets as she sat in the bathtub soaking.

"Could you get my little suitcase, get my shampoo and conditioner for me?" she called, just as he was hanging up the phone. "My hair's feeling kind of nasty."

"Of course." He brought the little toiletries case into the bathroom, propping it on the side of the sink, then locating the bottles he remembered seeing in the shower at her place. "Service with a smile," he said, setting the bottles at the side of the tub. "I'll even wash it for you if you like."

She grinned. It was so like the Bridget he knew and loved that for a moment he forgot she was ill.

She leaned forward as he poured on the shampoo, then lathered it up, the pads of his fingers massaging her head languidly. From the way her head lolled about, he reasoned it was helping to alleviate the pain. She sighed, then confirmed his thoughts: "That feels so nice."

"I'm glad. Now lean back for a rinse," he said, turning the faucet back on for a moment; not too cool, not too hot. She closed her eyes as the sudsy water ran down over her face and into the water around her.

He then did the same for her conditioner: a generous dollop in his palm, which he spread between both hands then worked into her scalp and locks. She didn't sigh so much as moan; he was just happy he could give her some pleasure that day. That he had himself suffered casualties—a soaking wet shirt and spotted trousers—were of little concern.

"Second rinse, then a wash."

"Ahh," she said, lying back under the stream again.

He lathered up a washcloth and ran it gently over her arms, back and chest; one at a time each leg rose up out of the water and he diligently washed those as well. She got up on her knees so that he might wash the rest of her, then one final rinse and he was helping her up out of the emptying tub, wrapping her in a giant cotton towel after patting at her skin.

"It's amazing how a bath can help one to feel ten times better," she said as he took a second towel to her hair.

"Or," said Mark with a smirk, indicating his mussed clothing, "a shower."

"Sorry," she said, with an equally amused smirk as he brought the blue nightgown up and over her head.

He walked with her back to the bed, sat her down, then went for the comb he'd seen in the case. With great care he combed her hair—noticing her lids falling with the pleasure—and as he did he steadied himself for the unpleasant duty to come. 

It not take long to get through the treatment, and afterwards he settled her in to rest to allow the medicine a chance to get into her system, pulling her new nightgown down and the bed sheets up to her waist. As she rested there on the bed taking a few steadying breaths, he laid beside her and stroked her hair once more. Her eyes were closed but she managed a smile. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

It was true that he had never known anyone like her before… and he was going to do anything it took to get her well and keep her by his side for many years to come.

………

"…and look, there's a story here about that handsome doctor from television…"

Mark had barely gotten her settled into her chair with the broth and her magazines, had pulled one out to read her the lead story, when a housekeeping arrived in the form of two polite young women with an armful of towels for the bathroom and linens for the bed. As they worked, he stood near Bridget's chair to better observe both them and Bridget; they seemed friendly, offering smiles and fleeting glances to him. Though she'd started eating eagerly, her appetite seemed to wane as time passed. It was a little understandable, thought Mark, as she'd eaten nothing of substance since the day before, and she'd hardly be able to tuck into a full meal after so little.

They were extremely efficient and were finished with the bed in short order. They gathered up the dirty linens and were appropriately deferential to Bridget and himself.

One of the two young ladies offered, "We hope Madame is feeling better soon."

Bridget thanked them. Mark knew instinctively she was not fond of the designation, but despite that and her illness she was still very gracious.

They bowed and retreated from the room.

Noting she hadn't quite eaten half the broth, he asked her how she'd liked it.

"Just my speed," she said.

He smiled and offered to take her to the bed.

"I think I'll stay in the chair for a bit, if it's all the same."

He was surprised by the sharpness of her tone. "Whatever suits you." He crouched beside her lap, concerned. "What's the matter? Was it the broth?"

"No, I told you the broth was fine."

He saw her eyes dart to the door, and he creased his brow. "Did the chambermaids do something wrong?"

The quickness of her denial made him suspicious.

"Bridget," he insisted, "Tell me what it is."

Her eyes dropped to look at the floor, and she told him. "Well, they didn't do anything _wrong_ , per se; they were just… they were _falling_ over themselves for you. Surely you noticed."

He had, of course, been very aware of how courteous and proficient they had been at their work, and he said so. However, he had also seen that they did direct their attention to him personally. Taking her hand, he said, "Okay, yes, I _did_ notice they were fawning over me a bit."

She scoffed. "More than a bit. And I'm sure you noticed that they were young, and really attractive, in shape, and not in fact suffering from lepto-whatever…"

As he looked into her eyes again it pained him to think that she might really believe he had the slightest interest in other women, exacerbated by the insecurity of her perceived appearance due to her illness. Softly, he advised, "But they're not _you_." He paused, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "You make me laugh like no one else can—and I don't mean _at_ you," he said quickly before she could retort with a self-deprecating remark. "Your spontaneity brings joy to my life. You're beautiful and _bloody_ sexy—" He momentarily lost control of the reserve of his voice and was quick to recover it, but not before it caused her to blush. "—and as I believe I've remarked on more than one occasion, I find your figure to be quite perfect; I continue to be deeply disappointed that I can't take full advantage of it at this very moment." His hand came to rest on her knee, which he ran his palm over, as he concluded tenderly, "Surely _you've_ noticed."

His speech appeared to have the opposite effect it intended. She said in a dejected voice, "I know, Mark… I have noticed. I'm sorry. I'm just… not feeling my best at the moment. Throwing up, being stuck in the arse in more ways than one… none of it does much for a girl's self-esteem, and then those twelve-year-olds call me 'Madame'…" She looked absolutely crestfallen.

He realised he would have to pull out the big guns, as it were. "Hm." He rose from his crouched position, went towards where his jacket hung in the closet, where the box holding the ring still sat nestled.

She called after him, asking if he was angry. He realised that sometimes it was not so beneficial to be taciturn, especially when she sat there looking so vulnerable and delicate. "Of course I'm not angry," he said to her as he returned to her side, kneeling beside her. "I was going to give this to you last night, but with everything that happened, I wasn't able to. Then I thought I might wait until you were feeling better, but, well, I see that flowers, nightgowns and magazines aren't quite doing the trick for lifting your spirits." He opened the box, smiled then raised it to present it to her.

The change was instantaneous and complete. Her hand flew to her mouth as her gaze connected with the sparkler on the black velvet.

He said in conclusion, though hardly thought it necessary: "So yes, my unfortunately queasy love, I still want only you." To seal the deal, he took the ring from the box and slipped it onto her left hand.

He had never seen her cry like she was crying now, but the smile on her face as she examined the ring told him it was probably the happiest she'd been in some time. "It's amazing."

He couldn't hold back a grin. It was exactly what Shaz had said she'd say, and he told her as much.

" _Shaz?_ "

His eyes flitted down to steal a glance at the silver-coloured band, the beautiful centrepiece diamond with the two smaller ones flanking it on the band. "Well, you didn't think I'd make a decision like this without some input from your friends, did you?"

"Friends?"

"Yes. Sharon, Jude and Tom all came with me to Asprey."

" _Asprey?_ " she said in barely a whisper. 

He loved what this was doing to her, and he grinned. "Apparently platinum has an odd effect on you. It's turned you into a mynah bird."

"Plati—?" Catching on to what he'd said, she ceased speaking and instead reached for him to pull him close with as much strength as she could muster.

He wrapped his arms around her in return, pressing his nose into her hair, closing his eyes and willing himself to breathe once more. She'd accepted the ring. That was just as good as a yes in his opinion. He could now in good conscience consider himself engaged.

………

_Sunday_

_She's too damned thin._

Mark woke with his arm still draped over her, and that thought was still going through his mind, the way her hip protruded out and dug into his elbow. Shortly after giving her the ring, shortly after ejecting the broth from her body and all over the lovely jewel (much to her mortification), he'd helped her into bed. She'd fallen almost instantly to sleep and after divesting himself of his own clothes, he'd joined her, a smile still playing on his lips after noticing how she held the hand with the ring on it close to her heart.

He'd debated saying anything about her how alarmingly thin she'd seemed to him. She'd seemed too skinny as it was after returning from Thailand, but now, after falling ill, it was even worse.

Slowly he raised his arm and rolled away from her to rise from the bed. He wasn't sure of the time but knew Hugh would be there sooner rather than later, so he wanted to get up and get dressed. He went to his mobile, attached firmly to its charger, and saw that he'd had no messages as yet from Hugh, also saw that it was six-forty.

That gave him time to at least shave and dress, surely. Just to be sure Hugh didn't come calling while Mark was in the bathroom, he opened the phone and sent a message to Hugh: _Don't knock before seven._

Hugh came as instructed at the top of the hour, and as promised, bearing pastry and coffee. Bridget was thankfully still sleeping and it was his intention to let her sleep as long as he could.

Later, as he walked Hugh to the door, he could only think how pleased he was that one of his best mates from university—one of the ones he still spoke to, anyway—liked Bridget as well as he did after so few actual meetings and heartily approved of the fact that Mark had asked her to marry him. Hugh had done the quick examination, the purported reason for the visit, but Mark felt that the real reason had been to get the story of their meeting out of him, the little details that brought a man like Mark and a woman like Bridget together. Sly fox. When Hugh invited Mark out to the pub that evening for a pint, Mark reasoned it might well be another go at getting even more details out of him.

Bridget, seemingly as determined as ever to find out more about the embarrassing 'Captain' story, had asked Hugh about it before his departure (he'd deflected it, thankfully, by drawing attention back to her ring), and was obliquely asking Mark once more as he returned to the side of the bed.

"Bridget. Leave well enough alone, already," he said with a smile.

He glanced to his watch, saw there was yet some time before eight. He decided to clean up the table where they'd eaten breakfast and was just about done when he heard her call his name.

When he turned to look at her he saw she was regarding him with a level of intensity he wouldn't have expected from a sick woman. "Yes, darling?"

"It's not quite eight yet. Come back to bed for a bit before… well, you know."

He slipped in beside her as he had been earlier, spooning up to her back, his arm encircling her waist, his cheek against her hair. He thought surely she'd drifted back to sleep when she suddenly asked, "Mark? Were you going to give me the ring on Friday night in the garden?"

He smiled. "I was. Why?"

"Well… I thought I dreamt it, but it was a memory after all."

He briefly tightened his arm around her before she turned over to face him, suddenly looking woeful. He was momentarily alarmed until she asked, "I know we can't really, you know, _do_ anything about it, but if I could at least beg a kiss from you—"

Truthfully, there was nothing in the world that would stop him from doing so when she asked. He reasoned that she was asking because she knew he would never dare otherwise in the condition she was in. He brushed her hair away from her face and tenderly kissed her; she kissed him back with rather more passion than he was expecting.

As he continued caressing her lovely lips with his own, it was then he knew he wanted to give her more than just a kiss, to please her more, even knowing that sex itself was out of the question. He reached over her shoulder gently, slipped his hand to her waist then her thigh, looking for the bottom of her nightgown.

She reared her head back, saying his name in protest as he full well expected.

His own voice was thick as he spoke. "I know. I just want to make you feel good, that's all." He brushed his fingertips along her leg.

"What about—"

"Don't worry about me. Now hush."

He found the bottom of the cotton shift and raised it above her waist, brushing his hand up over the warm skin of her stomach to her breast before returning to her hip and abdomen. She made no further protest as he carried out his loving mission.

Afterwards, she drifted back to sleep with a smile playing upon her lips; he glanced to his watch again and saw there'd be just enough time for a very quick, very cold shower before her treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ♥ the movie _[Sneakers](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105435/)_. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned this sooner, but I seriously could not have gotten through this redux without [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)'s help, and steel-trap memory for when things happened. (I mean, I was writing with the original story opened, but she is awesome at catching the little details.)
> 
> This is the second out of three story posts for this story done under the influence of [framboise](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Framboise). Bridget's wearing off on me.

_Sunday_

The first strains of real resistance began to show just prior to lunch. 

He reminded her that another treatment was coming up, and the length and breadth of her sigh told him exactly what she was thinking, confirmed by the mournful way she turned her eyes up to him as he came to stand over her: she wanted him to forgo noon's glutamine.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but no."

"But—"

"I know what you were going to ask: if we could skip one." He had been right on target, from the way her lips formed a perfect petulant pout, the way her fine brows came together in frustration. "And the answer's no." He reached down, brushed his fingertips along her face. "I'd buy you an ice cream treat if you could have it."

In a split second she seemed to switch tack, suggesting she might accept another treat instead, one similar to that morning's.

He advised in a light tone, "Bridget, there isn't enough cold water in the world for me to give you that sort of treat with every dose." She only pouted again.

He had to admit that she looked much better than she had Friday night; she had some colour back in her cheeks, and though her fever had not yet broken, he was heartened by the fact that it likely would tomorrow. He bent over and kissed her before fetching the medicine bag, playfully threatening to spank his petulant four-year-old.

As he delivered the treatment with her bent across his lap, he wondered if this would be the last truly easy dose.

When four's treatment approached, she blew impatient air out from between her teeth at his pointed reminder. "I don't know how four hours can pass so quickly when I'm doing absolutely nothing."

"I don't know how our lying in bed, eating, watching movies on the telly, talking and your occasional dozing can be considered 'nothing'.

She smirked. "And cuddling and kissing." She turned to demonstrate the latter.

She was a master of redirection, but he would not be persuaded. "Nice try."

Pulling back from him, he noticed she was also a master of the pathetic pout. "Eating, hah. I'm going to be so sick of broth by the end of the week."

"At least you're keeping it down." He stood from the bed to get the tablet. "Come on, you know the drill."

"Sadly, I do."

He sat again, popping out the tablet and readying it for her, and she took up her position; he swore she was heavier from sheer attitude alone. As he glanced at his watch for the time, he began talking in compensation for the quiet and to try to distract her from the burning pain, referring to the show they'd just been watching on the telly. "You know, I've never really understood how Monica and Rachel could afford a flat like that in New York City on their wages," he began, aware he was babbling on par with Pam Jones on a bad day. He felt her stiffen slightly, so he decided to charge on. "I mean, I'm fully capable of the suspension of disbelief; I can watch a science fiction movie with humans and aliens flying faster than light through space, can watch two ninja masters defying gravity as they fight, but there's something about the size of that flat, all the bedrooms in that place—the _balcony_ , for crying out loud—that I just—"

"Mark, idle chitchat doesn't really make this less painful or humiliating."

The sharp snap in her voice stung him and he stopped talking altogether, though didn't cease stroking her lower back for the comfort he knew it offered. She wriggled a bit more than usual, and took in several quick breaths. 

When she spoke again it was in a contrite tone: "I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help." 

"It's all right, love."

As the five minute mark approached, he spoke at last. "Almost done."

"I'm fine, you can let me go now."

He peered at the sweeping second hand of his watch. "You have another minute and… six seconds, darling."

She tried to push herself up, and said petulantly, "But Mark—"

"Absolutely not," he said sternly.

"Ah!" she winced almost simultaneously, rather proving his point; the pained sound hit him in the gut like a punch, but she offered no further protests, only a quiet "Humpf."

He withdrew from her, shifting her to the side to lie on the pillow. "Relax. I'll be right back."

By the time he returned from washing his hands, she had already drifted to sleep, though the crease of her brow told him she was still unsettled. He got into bed beside her once more, holding her close, kissing her temple at the hairline.

………

The solitude of the shower allowed him time with his thoughts, and he sighed as the water rushed down over his head. He'd hated having to say no to her seemingly innocent request for a walk outside, but he didn't want to go into the worrying details of protecting her health. He just wanted to protect it. He didn't quite understand how to convey to her that she just needed to trust him.

He didn't know how many minutes he stood there under the stream before actually washing up. He had a tendency whilst deep in thought to lose track of time, and being in the shower didn't seem to have any affect on that proclivity. He washed his hair with Bridget's shampoo (as he'd left his in his suitcase) then scrubbed himself with soap from head to toe. He stood longer than probably necessary rinsing off, but he felt refreshed as he turned off the water and stepped out. He patted himself down with a large cotton towel then wrapped it around his waist, examining his face in the mirror, deciding his haste in shaving that morning and the stubble he saw now probably warranted shaving again.

He picked his watch up off of the sink. Four-forty-five. Hugh would likely be there very soon. He exited the bathroom without shaving, rubbing at his hair again with another towel. "Bridget, I promise I'll—"

He stopped short, trying to comprehend what he was seeing… or rather, what he was not seeing: Bridget was not on the bed, nor was she on the chair where he'd left her. Her trainers were gone.

Oh God. He felt dizzy as the blood in his body seemingly dropped to his feet.

Hastily he slipped into a pair of trousers and a jumper, then into his shoes without the benefit of socks, and flew out of the room to look for her.

He left the room and strode with terrifying purpose down the hall towards the front door, knowing instinctively where she'd gone. It struck him then that maybe she'd gone weird and feverish and would get herself into trouble, like by deciding she'd had enough of being sick and wanted to take a dip in the lake.

Oh, _God_.

He pushed the front door open and strode out onto the landing when he stopped suddenly, his heart leaping to his throat. There, at the bottom of the stairs, was Bridget being assisted by Hugh. He couldn't help but to call out her name. Both of them looked up as he ran down to where they were.

Hugh tried to offer his usual humour: "Look who I found prowling around out here."

Mark barely heard it, taking her face in his hands, looking for signs that she was hallucinating or otherwise discombobulated. "Are you all right?" he asked, trying to quell the fear he still felt.

When she spoke, her voice was laden with contrition. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just had to get outside."

It was enough to know she was speaking to him in a coherent tone, never mind what the words actually were. He took her into his arms, holding her tight, sighing with relief. "All I could think was that you'd gone all funny and feverish again, weren't in your right mind and had wandered away…"

She sounded eager to convince him she'd learned her lesson: "I won't do it again, I swear. Hugh's told me there's a good reason I shouldn't be out here."

He drew back to look at her and gave her a quick kiss, gazing into her eyes once more. Hugh then spoke, reminding Mark that he was there. "All's well that ends well." 

Mark kept his arm about Bridget's waist as they turned to climbed the stairs. They were nearly back to the room when Mark realised he had not grabbed the room key in the rush to find Bridget.

"Oh, bloody hell," Mark muttered.

………

"Didn't think it would like corralling a two-year-old, did you?"

Despite the escape attempt, despite the scare he'd just had, despite everything that had happened since she'd fallen ill, Mark laughed right into the head of his ale as he went to sip, sending fluffy bits of beer around him. "I must admit, I did not, though I didn't expect by any stretch that she'd be an easy patient. Four-year-old at least."

Hugh laughed in response. "You should see me as a patient. Horrendous."

He knew his friend was only saying this to make him feel better, and oddly enough it did. "She probably didn't admit to you that she was going outside not just for fresh air, but to smoke."

Hugh laughed sharply. "That explains the amount of time it took you to get ready despite not having shaved properly. You had to thoroughly scold the four-year-old." 

Mark had a fleeting remembrance of the actual 'scolding' that had occurred—kissing, cuddling—and smirked. "Well, I don't particularly want her smoking even when she's well. I ended up confiscating the cigarettes and making her promise—" He stopped short when Hugh had pursed his lips in an effort to suppress a laugh. "What's so funny?" Mark asked. "You're a doctor; you know it's true."

"I was kidding about the scolding, and you… actually did it." He could no longer contain a laugh; it was infectious and Mark laughed, too. "Is she always quite a handful?"

"Mmm. Define 'handful'. The night we—" Mark paused to think of a suitable term for that first night, just after Christmas, when he'd returned from New York and without much preamble they'd fallen into bed and had barely come up for air until New Year's Day. "The night we got together, I… rather stupidly left the flat while she was changing into something… else. She took it upon herself to come chasing after me. With nothing on but a pair of knickers, a camisole, and a cardigan. And trainers. In the snow, in December."

Mark could not recall Hugh ever being rendered quite so speechless before. "And this was… _before_ you'd…"

Mark nodded. "I'd say it was the first time I'd seen her with so little clothing on, but there was the Tarts and Vicars fancy dress fete the previous summer that had been changed last minute, only no one told Bridget of the change."

Hugh cocked an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the rest of the story. 

"Bunny girl," was all Mark said.

Hugh shook his head, chuckling again. "She is _definitely_ unlike any other woman you've been with."

Mark thought of his ex-wife, of Natasha, of every pretty much every other woman he'd dated, and they were as different from Bridget as night was from day. "Too true. You've probably also noticed in your limited visits with her that she's always got an opinion close at hand, that she has no problem saying what she thinks."

"That all sounds like 'handful' to me."

"It's a breath of fresh air, usually." He paused to think. "Escape attempts are, however, outside the norm."

"I should bloody well hope so," said Hugh, picking up his pint of beer and taking a long swallow. "Though that might be saying more than you want me to know about your private relations." He winked.

Mark couldn't help laughing, sipping his own ale, then felt his mood turn serious. "She was very compliant at first, but with each one… she grows more hostile towards the treatment. I'm afraid that by Friday it will come down to forcible restraint."

"Can't have housekeeping walk in on that. That's a respectable establishment, after all." Mark chuckled. "Bear in mind though that even the last shot will be on Friday, the treatment doesn't actually end 'til Saturday."

"I remember. Though let me worry about those details. Don't want to scare her with too much information."

"Mark, don't hold back too much from her. If you'd actually told her _why_ she shouldn't go outside, she might not have."

At that moment their food was delivered, and Mark dug into his shepherd's pie, not realising until that moment how hungry he actually was. He had another drink of ale, thoughts of her earlier escape spiralling into obsession about her excursion outside, of Hugh's warning to stay inside to avoid picking up a secondary illness, which would be much worse coupled with the leptospirosis…

"What's wrong? Food no good?" asked Hugh.

"No, it's quite excellent," said Mark, setting his fork down. "I was just thinking about what you said. And she _did_ go outside. When might additional symptoms present themselves? What should I be looking for? See, I've been tracking her temperature, her treatments, her reactions to the treatments…" He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the little notebook, showing Hugh the notes he'd taken over the past two days.

Hugh's eyes widened as he looked over the neatly printed columns he'd made. "She doesn't see you doing this, does she?" he asked, looking up to meet his friend's eyes.

"No."

"Good." He closed the notebook and handed it back to Mark with a grin. "I know you like to present proof at trial, but honestly, you're being scary. You don't need to record this all. You're just making busywork—and worry—for yourself." Mark knew Hugh was probably right. "Especially since she was out there but a few minutes at most, and there was no one else around but me. I think she'll be okay. Relax." Hugh speared a few chips and popped them into his mouth. "It might help with the stir-crazy to let her know that once the fever breaks—usually on day three—that it'll be okay for her to take short excursions outside."

Mark felt enormously relieved. "That is good to hear."

"But you're still going to worry," said Hugh, casting his eyes down to his plate again to choose another section of fish fry.

"Of course," said Mark, smiling.

………

Mark had felt a pleasant buzz after two pints of ale, but by the time they'd actually left the pub it had mostly worn off. They were halfway back from Stratford when Mark called Bridget's mobile to let her know he was in transit.

Hugh quipped, "You're practically married already."

"Shut up," Mark replied playfully just as she answered. "Bridget? It's Mark. How are you?"

Her voice was not very groggy. "I'm fine. Just woke a little while ago—Mum called. Something wrong?"

"No. Just wanted to let you know I'm on my way, should not be more than five minutes 'til Hugh has me back there. I'll see you soon."

He closed his phone and looked over to see Hugh grinning again. "What?" Mark asked.

"You _can_ say 'I love you' to her in front of me."

"I know," he said defensively, then added, "She hung up before I could."

"Uh huh," said Hugh, obviously not believing the fib. "And was I right? Was she sleeping before?"

"You were right," Mark admitted, recalling the teasing he'd gotten during dinner when he'd repeatedly wanted to call to see how she was.

Making a clucking sound, Hugh asked, echoing that earlier teasing, "Are you going to marry her, or adopt her?"

He laughed.

Very shortly afterwards Hugh pulled up in front of the hotel, directly before the grand staircase that was the scene of the earlier drama. "I'll stop by tomorrow morning again, if that's all right."

"You're asking me if it's all right if you do me a favour? Nonsense. Please come by whenever you can."

"Tomorrow morning it is, then. With breakfast."

Mark rose from the car and turned to wave to his friend, who waved back before pealing away from the kerb. Mark scaled the stairs and entered the hotel, nodding in acknowledgment to the same concierge who'd been working earlier as he passed through the lobby.

He opened the door and found Bridget sitting on the bed, sheets covering her legs. "Hello, love." She was smiling so sweetly he became almost immediately suspicious. He went to her, stroking her hair, then said, "What are you up to?"

She had the good grace to look offended. "Mark! Why do you assume I'm up to something?"

"Because with a grin like that on your face, you usually are." He smirked, then looked to his watch. Made it back just in time. He went back to the bureau and grabbed the white paper bag. When he turned back, she was sitting with her eyes closed as if in dread, until he sat beside her offering the thermometer. A few minutes later, he found that the fever had not broken yet, but like earlier, it had not risen.

He cleaned off the thermometer with an alcohol pad as he encouraged her to get into place. She lifted her nightgown and laid down over his lap, and he prepared the syringe as he'd gotten used to doing.

As soon as he stuck the needle in, he sensed something about the injection was not quite right. She jerked as she hadn't done before as he depressed the plunger. _Dammit_ , he thought as he removed the needle. _Shouldn't have had two pints._

"I'm so sorry, my love. I think did that in slightly the wrong spot."

He heard her swallow hard, and when she spoke her voice was high and tight. "It's all right."

He disposed of the syringe appropriately, then took out a glutamine. He swore he felt every muscle in her body tense at the sound of the bubble pack. "Bridget, if you stiffen up, it just makes it worse," he said gently.

"It isn't as if I'm doing it on purpose," she said sourly. Of course she wasn't. He reached up, gently caressing the small of her back, which had always seemed to have a relaxing effect on her. 

He could not, however, put it off indefinitely, and so he sallied forth. He was startled when she cried out in obvious pain. "Mark, Mark, I'm serious, let go, it really hurts," she said, kicking her feet.

He felt as if his luck had just run out. In preparation for an escalated struggle, he braced her shoulders down with his forearm, apparently just in time, as she then tried to push herself up. "I'm sorry," he said calmly, "but I can't. If you'd stop flailing and calm down it would not hurt quite so much."

"That's easy for you to say."

Just then she took in a sharp breath; the medicine must have started to burn. She cried out pathetically (and loudly), and struggled more fiercely under his grasp.

"Bridget, shh, shh," he said, attempting to quiet her. He wanted to stroke her back again but didn't dare lift his left arm. "We're almost done here, if you would only hold still—"

"If someone stuck a hot poker up your arse I bet you wouldn't stay very still," she shouted, clutching at the duvet with ferocity. She then announced resolutely, "I'm not having another one of these. Ever."

He decided to say nothing more, not when the waning struggle indicated the burning had ceased, not when he moved her to lie on the pillow, not even when he saw the tears staining her face. He couldn't speak, not when emotion had closed his throat so effectively. He didn't dare speak, because he couldn't trust his voice not to crack; he had to be the strong one.

He only made sure she was comfortable, then went into the bathroom to wash his hands as if on autopilot. He realised he'd been washing a little longer than strictly necessary, and turned off the water before leaning heavily on the sink. He glanced up, saw he looked like utter hell, saw that his own eyes were moist with tears.

_And why shouldn't they be?_ he thought. He knew she had a tendency to exaggerate, that her tantrum, though worse than anything she'd done before, was just a reaction against the medicine itself, as well as the whole dosing process. That didn't mean it made having to hold her down to ensure complete absorption any easier. Hugh had told him how it would burn, and he didn't doubt it for a moment.

That he had to essentially be the enforcer was no easy duty. And with so many more suppositories yet to dispense…

Tears dripped suddenly from his eyes, and he blinked with surprise, wiping them away. He'd have to stay resolute. As much as he hated doing it, as much as she hated being on the receiving end, it was the only way she would get better, and they would just both have to… _well_ , he thought, _suffer_.

From the other side of the door he heard her calling his name once, then a second time. He stood up straight, combing damp fingers back through his hair, patting his cheeks with the towel, before exiting the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice betraying absolutely no emotion.

She was still lying prone with her head on the pillow, and she raised her gaze to look at him, but not her head. It broke his heart all over again. "Well," she said weakly, "aside from feeling like I've just been on the rack, I'm fine."

A firm rap on the door distracted him from his thoughts, and he went to answer it. It was the concierge. "I don't mean to disturb you, but we've had a complaint about some shouting and we wanted to make sure everything was all right," he said, straining to look around Mark to see what was going on. Mark stepped in, allowing the man to see for himself that crimes against humanity were not in fact occurring in this particular hotel room.

Keeping his voice tight, Mark said, "As you may be aware, my fiancée has fallen ill and the treatment involves injections, which she objects _strenuously_ to." He turned to look at Bridget, feeling somewhat angry that her overreaction caused someone to call the front desk to complain.

"It is not something contagious, I hope? We are not equipped to handle large-scale illness."

"No, no. Not at all contagious," Mark said. "We're very grateful for your amenities here and they are helping her recover more quickly. I'm very sorry, sir, and please relay my apologies to whomever called in the complaint. If those good folks would like something from room service, please, add it to my bill."

The concierge looked relieved. "All right, Mr. Darcy. Miss," he said, acknowledging Bridget, "good night."

Mark shut the door behind him, before turning back to her.

"I'm sorry."

They had both spoken at once, and it pleased him to see a smile on her lips. He went to sit beside her again, and as he got closer it seemed like she was studying his face, probably trying to discern his thoughts.

He decided to share them with her. "I've told you this before. I don't want to have to do this. Your struggling makes it much more difficult all around."

Quietly she said, "But you struck a nerve."

"Clearly I struck a nerve when you're feeling your most fragile—"

She interrupted him. "No, Mark." She turned onto her side to better face him. "I mean literally. I felt the pain of the needle shoot fire all the way to my toenails."

He did not comprehend what she meant at first until he realised she was saying that the misdirected injection had had a snowball effect, and had made the suppository that much more painful. He was filled with remorse for thinking her being petulant and rebellious for no reason. "Bridget, I had no idea—"

"How could you have? I should have said something." He heard her swallow. "Next time I'll know. It's all right," she said, reaching for him. "Right now I just want you to hold me. And I want to hold you back."

He did not need persuading. He climbed in and pulled the covers back over both of them, pulling her up so that she was upon him, so that he could kiss her.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," she said softly, fixing her blue eyes on his brown ones.

"You didn't make me cry," he said somewhat too quickly, cursing himself for not more thoroughly patting his face with the towel.

He watched as she raised her fingers. He closed his eyes and felt her catch him in the lie, as his lashes were in fact still damp. She declared, "You were crying."

"I _was_ crying," he began, as if he could further deny it, looking to her again, "because I have to continue to hurt you in the name of your health. That was particularly unbearable."

She blinked drowsily, kissing him once more. "I promise in future—" She then stopped talking, making a zip motion across her lips. It was a relief to smile again and he just held her close, feeling much lighter than he had just minutes ago. 

"So," he said after many moments in this peaceful solitude, "now that we've offered all manner of apologies to our neighbours and each other—what are you in the mood for? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Up for some telly or a movie? I could always look for that chess set."

She had no answer at first, simply looking up to him with the love he knew she had for him, then raked her nails over the hair at his temple and over his sideburn. "This suits me just fine."

Pulling her fully up onto him, he embraced her around the waist and kissed her again.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked her, running his hands down over the soft cotton covering her bottom.

"Hm, a little," she sighed, thrusting her chin forward to reclaim his lips. "You'll just have to keep doing that until it's all better."

He ran his fingers over her bottom again, exerting a tiny bit more pressure, not unaware of the effect it was having on himself. "How about that?"

"Very nice," she said with a sigh, placing little kisses at the corner of his mouth before resting her cheek on the pillow next to his head, before placing one final kiss on the sideburn there. He felt her warm breath rolling over his face; it slowly evened out, got a little shallower, telling him she'd fallen to sleep once more.

He ran his hands up along her back and around her to hold her once more, and he closed his eyes, turning to bury his nose in her hair. Still, he could not help but feel tonight's struggle was a taste of things to come, and he resolved to continue to not allow his own feelings get in the way of her recovery. He resolved to hold firm against any future tantrums.

……… 

_Monday_

Sometimes Mark really hated when he was right.

When he woke to find Bridget fully dressed and made up, he initially found it a good sign that she was beginning to feel better. This did not last long once he realised she had no intention of continuing her treatment because in her opinion, she was 'all better'; she had then decisively pitched the bag of medicine into the trash bin.

Which led him to where he was now: on the bed, attempting to wrestle the rescued medicine bag away from her without actually injuring her in her weakened state. Before long he knew he would have to abandon brute force for tactical cunning.

He released her waist, backed away from her, sitting up straight. "Fine," he said dejectedly. "You win. I give up, you bloody brat." He concluded by patting her firmly on her bottom.

Undoubtedly feeling victorious, she turned her eyes to him with a grin, and sat up also. As she relaxed, he reached forward and plucked the bag from her clutches. She looked completely astonished, and sat with her mouth hanging open. 

He wondered now if she regretted those chess lessons as she sat there pouting.

"But the thing is," she said, considering her words, "I just wanted you to see this weekend how much I'd grown and matured, and I don't feel either with you shooting stuff into my bum."

He refrained from actually laughing out loud. " _That_ —" he began, pointing to the site of the struggle, "—was not particularly mature. You have to be treated, regardless of the manner."

He would have been lying if he'd said the pleading in her eyes didn't have an effect on him, but he was not about to admit it. Clearly attempting a compromise, she said, "At least talk to Hugh and get me something oral. I've had enough of shots in the arse. And I'm ready for food again, so we can stop the—well. You know."

"You, my darling, are maddening," he said with a sigh. "It so happens he's coming by to look at you again and to bring me some breakfast. You can ask him when he's here if there are other options."

Her expression changed instantly and she announced that once on oral treatment they might finally get to properly celebrating their reunion. She threw her arms around him, running her fingers along the waistband of his boxers in a most distracting manner.

As he put desires he could not presently act on out of his thoughts, he hoped it was true, hoped she would continue to feel as good as she did, but knew there was more than half the journey to go to full recovery.

She actually seemed to have an appetite for the first time since Friday night, and agreed to a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal and some coffee, which he ordered for her before heading into the bathroom with his clothes for the day, intent on a shower. He didn't think he'd lingered too long with his routine—including properly and carefully attending to his shave—but he heard what he thought was a man's voice in the room and so hastened to dress; when he emerged from the bathroom he found that not only had Bridget's oatmeal and coffee arrived, but so had his friend. Mark sensed he had interrupted a serious conversation, at least one on Bridget's part, because Hugh had clearly just taken a bite of his pastry.

"I thought I heard your voice out here, old man," said Mark in greeting.

Hugh waved, miming a 'hi'.

"Enjoying your oatmeal, darling?" He walked over and planted a kiss atop her head.

"Mmm, yes." They had really splashed out on the oatmeal for her, little side containers of brown sugar and honey half-emptied and in her bowl.

Hugh finished chewing and swallowed. "So Bridget and I have been talking about her treatment, and we've come to an agreement that she's to stay on course."

Mouth still full of oatmeal, Bridget looked to Hugh in an almost… well, surprise was the best term for it. He could only presume she had intended on telling him herself. As she looked to Mark, he smiled broadly, hugely relieved, though somewhat sceptical.

Mark looked to Hugh. "And has she agreed not to fight me on this any more?" 

"Yes, yes, absolutely," he said without hesitation.

Though still wary of this sudden conversion to full acquiescence, he grinned. "Oh, that pleases me to no end." Mark reached for his own breakfast and perched on the corner of the bed to eat it. He glanced to Bridget. She was smiling.

"Have you taken your temperature today?" asked Hugh.

She looked to Hugh, eyes wide. "I haven't! Ooo!" He watched Bridget bound for the bureau—thinking he was never happier to see her so perky—and get the thermometer out of the white paper bag in the drawer. He looked over to Hugh at the same moment Hugh looked to him; Mark realised his description of Bridget, as vivacious, spontaneous and carefree, was more on target than Hugh probably could have believed.

She stared at the both of them as she caught their shared look. "What?"

"Nothing." He brushed pastry crumbs from his fingers and then held out his hand for the thermometer she had brought. "Here. Give that to me." After she did, she resumed her seat in the chair, and after a good shake he inserted it into her waiting mouth.

He timed the three minutes, having a little more of his breakfast as he did, before plucking it from her mouth to read it. His heart soared; the fever had broken. He felt a broad smile overtake his face as he looked to her and told her so.

Her mouth gaped open and she drew her hands together. "Really? _Really?!_ "

"Really," he said with a smile.

"Oh, hurrah!" With a huge grin on her own face, she put another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth. He was very pleased to see she had eaten as much of it as she had. He saw her face turn slightly serious as she chewed, and after swallowing, she asked, "What does that mean for me, exactly?"

He left it to Hugh to explain. "Well, it means that the antibiotic is doing its job. All the sleep you've had has helped your body to fight off the infection as well. So I'd say continue what you've been doing."

"Can I tell her now?" Mark blurted, thinking of the excursions outdoors Bridget would so look forward to. 

"Tell me what?" Bridget asked.

Hugh nodded. Mark knew Hugh thought his friend cruel for not saying something sooner, though his face betrayed no such thought. Even still, Mark was unnaturally excited to give her the news.

"Hugh says that we can start taking short walks outside now that the fever's broken."

Hugh added, nodding again, "You're much less likely to pick something up out here in the country, anyhow."

Her happiness at hearing this news was unmistakable, and her face lit up with joy. "What about—?"

Mark felt himself flush with heat. He knew exactly to what she was referring: proper reunion-type activities.

"'What about' what?" With the smirk on Hugh's face, Mark reasoned Hugh knew, too.

" _You know_ ," said Bridget with unholy emphasis.

With a chuckle, Hugh explained: "Well, presuming there's no hanging from the fixtures, or whips and chains involved there shouldn't be a problem. So long as you don't overtax yourself, I mean."

"Oh, goody," she said. Mark felt her eyes on him, and he tried to repress his smile, but was wholly unsuccessful. He was happy to have Hugh's okay for resuming intimate relations, but he didn't want her to see him smiling and thinking he was eager to take her to bed the moment Hugh left the room. He felt she was too weak, that he might inadvertently hurt her; he would have to keep a rein on his urges until she was a little stronger.

Mark had to wonder, though, if Hugh thought his presence was no longer required for that very reason, because he stood up and very obviously examined his watch. "I must be off. I have appointments starting at eight."

"Thanks again, mate." Mark stood to see him to the door.

Just after passing into the hall, Hugh turned then placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. In a very low tone, Hugh said, "She is definitely a keeper, old man."

Mark grinned, nodding almost imperceptibly before his friend headed for the lobby.

He went back in the room and took the recently-vacated chair.

Bridget fixed him with a look brimming with curiosity, finally asking, "What'd he say?"

When he told her, she smiled tenderly; he was beyond pleased that she and his friend were getting along so famously.

Unfortunately, her features then formed a look of distinct discomfort. Before she even had the chance to say his name, he had out of sheer reflex reached for the bucket.

_Ah well_ , he thought as she unfortunately ejected her breakfast. _The illusion of perfect health is thus shattered._ To his dismay, he realised it was probably for the best.

When she spoke, she echoed his thoughts to an extent in a shaky voice. "It was good while it lasted." After settling her back into the chair, he took the bucket away into the loo and fetched a fresh face cloth, dampening it with cool water. He went back to her, resuming his duty as tender to the ill, cleaning her up and getting her back into a nightgown. 

As he helped her back into the bed, she said something that quite puzzled him: "By the way, next time you see Hugh, tell him I owe him a tenner."

"Why?"

"Don't ask."

He didn't think it wise to further press the issue; he just carried on, calling the front desk to have her things fetched to be laundered and to get a change of sheets again before her treatment was due to be administered. After letting the same two girls come in to dress the bed in fresh linens and take away the clothing, he settled Bridget on his lap and pulled a blanket over her legs. Her reversion back to helpless and weak pained him, and he just held her as the girls began their work.

The dark-haired girl looked to the two of them almost shyly. "We're sorry, miss, that you're still feeling so unwell."

He didn't think she was still awake, but a quiet "Thank you" from his lap indicated otherwise. He raised his eyes to them and nodded his thanks as well.

By the time they finished, Bridget had actually fallen back to sleep. He felt badly about having to rouse her, especially since it meant he had to give her the shot and the suppository. He shouldn't have been surprised at her total complaisance as he administered both, as she hardly seemed to have the energy to keep her eyes open, let alone fight him over the odious treatment, but he was.

When he returned to the room he sat beside her on the bed. She was resting prostrate with her face turned away from him. He stroked between her shoulder blades and said, mostly to himself than to her, "You look so tired."

She turned to face him, and only then he realised she had again fallen asleep. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I was going to see if you wanted to take that walk but I think you need to sleep after all."

The corner of her mouth crooked in a grin. "And you wake me to tell me this?"

He apologised.

"Don't be sorry. Come back to bed with me."

He was preparing to slip under the sheets with her; she made a disapproving sound. "Too many clothes."

Surely she knew better than to try embarking on intimate relations when she was so obviously exhausted. "Bridget. You need some more sleep."

"I know what I need," she said in an attempt at sultry.

"Sometimes I wonder," he said gently, offering a smile. "There will be time enough for _that_ when you've gotten your strength back."

As he reclined, she came to rest on his chest, offering him one of her most pitiable pouts. "But Hugh said it was all right, and I was so good before…"

"You were, and I appreciate that you were, but I'm afraid for right now it's still no."

She laid down; he tightened his arms around her. Any argument she might have had was silenced by her slumber. He laid there for a few moments more to ensure his movement away from her would not wake her again, then got to his feet, deciding to go for a quick walk. He wasn't sure where he'd go while she slept but it was some time until noon yet.

He jotted down a quick note to let her know where he was should she stir, then headed out. Three steps out of the room his mobile began to vibrate. He reached for it, saw it was his mother.

"Mark, what's this I hear about Bridget being ill?" Elaine asked straight off the bat.

Mark stopped in his tracks. "How on earth did you hear about that? I mean, she is ill, but she's getting better."

"Colin Jones called me to find out more details after his wife told him." Mark remembered Bridget's mention of speaking with her mum. His mother continued, "He said he tried calling Bridget's phone directly but couldn't get through."

He had continued walking out through the front door and into the beautiful sunny day, squinting a little at the brightness, putting his free hand into his pocket.

"So," asked his mother, "what's wrong?"

Mark gave her the briefest of explanations of what she was sick with, how she'd become sick, and the expected recovery time. "We're actually still out in the country," he added. "Thought it might do her good to stay out here for the week of treatment."

"Hope it's nothing too terrible. I hate to think of Bridget so ill."

Mark smiled. He loved that his mother (and father) thought of her as a daughter already. "The first night was no picnic. Fever, vomiting, hallucinating… she's been on her treatment since Saturday and there's been a marked improvement already."

"I'm relieved to hear that."

Mark found himself chuckling, thinking the treatment was probably worse than the illness in some ways. He then decided to take his mother into his confidence. "I'll be honest. The treatment is not entirely pleasant and I'm afraid I'm in for a real fight as she feels stronger and better. I had a taste of that this morning and it's only the start of day three of seven."

"Is it really that bad?"

Thoughts of her struggling, her tears, after the misdirected shot the night before popped unbidden into his head. "She referred to it, if I remember correctly, as medieval torture."

"Surely it's necessary," said his mother, "and surely she's exaggerating."

"She is a bit," he admitted, though he was not sure he wouldn't feel the same if he were on the receiving end of the glutamine. "Unfortunately, an oral treatment was out of the question due to the vomiting."

His mother was silent, surely conjuring up possibilities.

"She's afraid of needles," Mark added, hoping to get her mind off of darker (and probably correct) methods of delivery.

"Ah." She sounded very much relieved. "Well, I ought to get going, darling. Send our love to dear Bridget."

"Of course."

"Oh," she asked suddenly. "Did you… you know. The ring?"

He chuckled. "Yes. I gave her the ring."

"And…?"

Grinning, he said, "She vomited immediately afterwards."

Elaine gasped, then laughed. "Oh, Mark. I keep forgetting what a different man you have grown to be with that girl in your life." 

He chuckled. It was something he was thankful for every day.

"But she likes it?" she pressed.

"Of course she does. She wouldn't take it off even after that."

He could hear the smile in his mum's voice as she said, "Good. I'm glad. Well, have a good stay, or at least as good a stay as you can have given the circumstances."

"Will do. My love to Dad."

He disconnected, took in a deep breath of fresh air, and decided to head back in for a newspaper and a cup of coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

_Monday_

It was a very close call, saved only by the bell.

More accurately, the vibrating pulse of his mobile.

She'd napped for a couple of hours before rising and beckoning him to her side in the bed, which he was more than happy to accommodate until he realised she was really trying to initiate lovemaking. The ardour of her kiss had a very sudden and total effect on him and instinctively he reached for the hem of her cotton nightgown.

That was when the phone went off in his pocket.

The fact that it was her father calling helped to quash his desires instantaneously.

He rose from the bed to speak quietly to Mr Jones, explaining as he did to his mother what it was Bridget had contracted and that it was well under control.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said her father, "but your mother gave me your number. I've had a hell of a time getting through to Bridget's phone. It's just going straight to voice mail."

"It's quite all right. I completely understand your concern. I'm sorry I didn't think to call you or your wife sooner."

"Mark, don't worry. I'm sure you were too busy actually taking care of my daughter. Actually, I'm glad to speak to _you_ about this. I'm sure Bridget would just say 'chuh' and tell me not to be such a worry-wart if I asked her what was wrong."

Mark grinned. "Well, thank you."

"Is Bridget there? I'd like to speak to her."

"She's resting," he said automatically, even as aware as he was of her eyes fixed on his back.

"Oh, don't disturb her on my account. Just give her a kiss from me."

"I will."

"And let me know if you need anything, if there are any complications…"

Mark turned at last to glance at Bridget. "Yes of course I'll let you know, but I don't anticipate there will be."

"Thanks, Mark. I know she's in good hands with you taking care of her. Speak to you soon."

"All right. Thanks."

"And give my love to Bridget?" he added.

"I certainly will. Goodbye."

After setting his mobile down onto the table near his folded newspaper, he went back to Bridget to see if he might persuade her to take that walk, hoping to take her mind off of what she'd tried to do prior to her father calling. However, he could immediately tell that she was already distracted from that by the phone call, and decided to tease her a little. Feigning innocence, he asked, "So how are you feeling? Still up for that walk?"

She sat up, staring at him like he'd gone mad. "Mark! The _call!_ Who _was_ that?"

"Oh. Right." He grinned playfully. "It was your father."

"My _father_? Why did he call _you?_ "

He pretended to be offended. "Why _not_ me? I am your future husband." He smiled again and explained how he'd tried calling her mobile but couldn't get through. "Perhaps your battery is dead. Plus…" Mark added hesitantly, "he thought you might try to downplay what you have."

"Lie about it, in other words. Oh! He didn't even ask to speak with me!"

At her wounded look, he said, "I did tell him you were resting, so he said not to wake you. But he told me to give you a kiss from him."

She smiled, which then turned into a wicked grin. "I was most definitely not resting when he called, though."

He'd opened the door on that himself, and he silently cursed himself for it. "Bridget, the thought of giving you a kiss from your father has rather been a wet blanket for me. If you don't mind, I would like to go outside, enjoy the fresh air… and frankly, I've been dying to see the sunlight in your hair. I've almost forgotten what it looks like."

The softening of her smile melted his heart, and as she leaned forward to peck him with a quick kiss, he wished he wasn't quite so bloody conscientious.

………

The walk outside was delightful, and Bridget was so compliant for her treatment yet again that he had to wonder exactly what Hugh had told her when he said no to changing her regimen to oral (because if Hugh had agreed, she would have insisted on changing immediately). Whatever it was, he was certain it wouldn't last, and the next two would follow in the footsteps of the previous evening's.

Immediately after washing up, he offered to call down for lunch, maybe a sandwich for him and more soup for her as she seemed to actually be hungry, when she gestured he should come nearer to her. Jokingly he said, walking to where she was on the bed, "I can hear you from there—"

It was her reaching for his trousers—the button and the zip, to be precise—caused him to cease speaking momentarily before adding, his tone much more severe, "Bridget, we probably shouldn't so soon after—"

"I know," she interrupted, "and I'm not talking about that. But I'd like very much to make up for being a screaming terror last night. Properly. I'm well-rested and feeling better, and I think it's time I took care of _you_."

He took her meaning instantly and offered her name in protest: " _Bridget_ —"

However, when he felt her hand on his suddenly-bare stomach, the objection died in his throat, and he succumbed to her tender ministrations, allowing her full rein over his person, her lips teasing his own, her hands gingerly caressing him in all the ways he loved best, releasing all the tension (and unfulfilled desires) of the past few days in short order. As he regained his breath afterwards, he kissed her thoroughly, trying not to feel selfish even as he fell into a deep and immediate sleep.

He might have been out much longer if not for his brain registering a loud and puzzling sound even while so deep in dreams. He opened his eyes and turned them to the woman in his arms; she had turned somewhat crimson.

He sat up. Suppressing a smirk, he asked in order to confirm his suspicions that she was in fact hungry, "What on earth…? Was that your—?"

"Shut up," she retorted.

He could not fight the laughter bubbling in his throat. As he then contained his mirth, he said, still smiling, "I think it might be time to order that soup for you, darling Bridget."

Strangely, this seemed to have a depressive effect on her; her features fell, her eyes went supremely glossy and she reached forward to embrace him quite tightly. Surely being caught having an actual appetite was not what was devastating her so badly. He asked, suddenly concerned, if something was wrong.

"I'm fine, darling Mark. Never better."

He leaned forward and kissed into her hair. Her reaction confused him considering he could feel her tears upon his chest, but felt it best not to press the issue, just to hold her as she seemed most to need. It didn't mean he wasn't still worried about what was obviously troubling her.

………

_Tuesday_

It seemed to have become the tradition that Hugh join them for breakfast and so Mark, though hesitant to get out of bed, rose earlier than usual to text to Hugh not to bring breakfast, that he'd order something from room service for a proper nosh. The ":-)" received in acknowledgment prompted him to grin accordingly.

He glanced back to the mussed bed to look at Bridget lying there in slumber. She'd clung to him all night. While he certainly didn't mind, it was something she rarely did when she was well; she was ordinarily a wild sort of sleeper, all over the mattress, hogging covers, pillows and bed real estate alike. Her clinging was especially troubling to him when he considered her emotional reaction of the day before.

"Mark?" she asked groggily from her place on the pillow. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here, love. Just about to order breakfast."

"Oh, okay." She yawned.

"Do you want to give oatmeal another go?"

"What are you having?"

"Eggs and bacon for Hugh and myself."

"Oooh," she said. "I want eggs and bacon."

"I don't think so. Too greasy, too heavy for your stomach right now."

She pouted but offered no further resistance; instead, he watched her rapidly fall back to sleep. Chuckling, he decided to take a quick shower and shave before his guest and their breakfast arrived.

Demonstrating an excellent sense of timing once again, Hugh arrived just after the food did. Mark woke Bridget to give her her breakfast, then set the little table for the two men. He held out his hand, indicating Hugh should take one of the chairs as he took the other.

To his surprise, Bridget gathered her bowl and her coffee and padded over to where they were seated, and decidedly perched across Mark's lap.

Hugh could not disguise his amusement as he tucked into his breakfast.

"So how is the patient today?" he asked. "Do I owe you ten pounds?"

The way that Hugh then laughed told Mark she gave him a rather dirty look. He remembered Bridget's comment about the tenner shortly after she'd vomited, and realised they'd had some sort of wager on the matter.

"I see," said Hugh. "I do accept cheques if you're short of bank notes. Did you get to take your walk at least?"

Mark swallowed the bite of bacon he'd taken then spoke up. "It was only a short one, due to Bridget's weakness after the nausea attack. But I'm hoping for a more settled stomach today and perhaps a longer walk. We'll see if she's up for it." He then noticed that she had barely eaten her oatmeal. "Bridget, come on and eat your breakfast like a good girl."

She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes. "All right, Daddy," she said sarcastically as she smirked, then made a show of eating a big spoonful of oatmeal, making a face as she did so.

He heard Hugh chuckle again.

"Treatment's going well, by the way," said Mark, hoping to deflect the subject away from his evidently-too-fatherly concern, before scooping another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

"I'm glad to hear," said Hugh.

Just then, Bridget reached to steal a strip of bacon from his plate. He moved his plate away, tsking at her. "Too soon for this sort of food," he said snappishly. "Just ask the doctor there."

Hugh blinked innocently; frankly, he looked a little afraid to be pulled into this debate. "Eh, I don't think it'd kill her, but what do I know? I'm not a real doctor. I wanted to be an actor, after all, but when I played Brutus at university they tried to stab me instead, so I thought I'd better stick with medicine."

"You keep making me eat this gruel, and I'll take a knife to both of you," Bridget said wryly.

Mark found himself laughing along with Hugh, and in his amused distraction she reached and plucked the last strip of bacon from his plate, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied grin. Hugh started to laugh even harder.

"You realise you'll never win," said Hugh.

He was beginning to think that was actually true. She sat her bowl down on the table, picked up her coffee for a sip, and then slipped her arm around Mark's neck, absently raking her nails back and forth just below his collarbone. Somehow, the combined naughtiness of her bacon thievery, obstinate anti-oatmeal sentiments, and casual comfort in front of Hugh actually made him feel better.

"So you really wanted to be an actor?" asked Bridget, resting her cheek against Mark's hair.

Hugh laughed. "I'm surely ham enough, but I wasn't really cut out for it in the end. Not steady enough work for me, 'cause I like to eat, amazingly enough."

He felt her chuckle lightly; her fingers came to a halt on his shoulder, and Hugh furrowed his brow, looking above Mark's head meaningfully.

"What?" Mark asked soundlessly.

Hugh put his hands together as if in prayer, tilted them to the side, then rested his cheek upon the back of one of them, miming sleep.

Mark was fortunately in a good position to rise with her in his arms. Without even being asked Hugh got to his feet and turned the hastily-made bed's sheets back. Mark mouthed a "thanks" as he got to his feet and deposited his lovely fiancée back onto the bed. As he covered her again, Hugh pointed to the door, indicating he was going to leave. Mark nodded, walking to the door.

Hugh whispered, "Thanks for brekkies. Good stuff. And every time I meet that lady of yours I like her more."

Mark smiled, then asked half in jest, "What did you do exactly to turn her into such a perfect angel?"

"What?"

"She hasn't fought me again over the treatment."

Hugh shrugged, offering a grin. "I guess I just have a special power over women," he said. "Don't worry so much, Daddy." Before Mark could respond, Hugh was turning and heading out into the hall.

As he closed the door to the room, he glanced to his watch. It was quarter to eight, nearly time for her treatment. He knew he'd have to wake her soon. He sighed, going to the bureau for the thermometer, a hypo, a couple of alcohol pads, and a glutamine tablet, then setting them on the bedside table in preparation for what was surely to be a struggle; he knew his good fortune would not last, and her feistiness over breakfast signalled a return to something closer to normalcy.

He sat beside her again, brushing her hair from her face, and he couldn't help smiling. What a deception that angelic appearance was. Honestly, he didn't want it any other way, even if it did mean having to mentally brace himself before each dosage.

She stirred and opened her eyes without his even saying a word. "What happened? Where's Hugh?" was the first thing out of her mouth.

"You fell asleep. He had to leave."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I think he understands," he said, then added, "It's nearly eight."

"Right." She moved into position without a word of protest. "Carry on."

He was somewhat stunned, and decided he'd better do so before there was a shift in the prevailing wind and she started to fight him. He hiked the lower hem of the nightgown up and over her bottom, and prepared once more to pierce her creamy flesh.

After it was done and he'd washed up, he returned to her side and climbed in beside her. Just like she'd done overnight, she immediately came up close to him and clung to him, burying her face into his chest, pressing her fingers into his shoulders. He could tell she was saying something but he couldn't quite make out what it was.

"Bridget?" he asked softly, wrapping his arms around her. "What was that?"

She did not repeat herself, and upon craning his head to the side to get a good look at her face, he saw that she'd fallen back to sleep. He sighed, wishing he'd gotten to take her temperature before the treatment. With her incoherent babbling and surprising compliance in taking the dose, he was now a little afraid her fever had returned. He reached forward and kissed her forehead; he didn't think it was his imagination that it felt very warm. No matter, he thought; he would just take her temperature when she woke. Now, though, she needed to sleep.

………

Mark had already long since unpacked the suitcases, had taken a shower, read the paper three times, and had even gone so far as to read Bridget's horribly tabloid magazines, when he remembered that her father had mentioned being unable to reach her mobile and decided to locate her charger and get her phone plugged in. After all, if he should need to go out again, he wanted some way to reach her, and he didn't want to have to trouble her to get up to answer the hotel phone.

He had just located an outlet beside her nightstand and was plugging the phone in when he heard her stir. The cord wasn't long enough for the phone to sit properly on the bedside table, so he set it down on the floor then stood to sit near her waist. "Hey, sleepyhead," he said with a grin.

She smiled. "Hi. What time is it?"

"Not time for your treatment yet," he said, reaching forward to stroke her face.

"Ah," she smiled, resting her hand over his.

"Another gorgeous day," he said. "Fancy a walk?"

"Hmm." Her nails raked along his knuckles. "That sounds lovely."

"Great. But first, let's get your temperature." He turned to reach for the thermometer.

"My temperature?" she asked, sitting up. "Mark, my fever broke yesterday."

"Can't be too careful," he said. "Just making sure things are still holding steady."

"Well, I guess of all the things I'm enduring this week, a thermometer in the mouth is the least of my worries," she said with a smirk. "Come on, let's have it." She then opened her mouth.

He was puzzled to find that she did not in fact have a fever; she looked a little too triumphant as she rose from the bed to find some clothing.

With his arm about her shoulders and her arm at his waist, they seemed to unanimously decide without words to head directly back to the same lakeside tree they'd walked to the day before; the view was stunning, the breeze was refreshing, the water was placid and sparkling, and the sky was the purest of blues. She sighed as she brought her other arm up and linked her hands at his waist. "Oh," she said with a sigh, leaning into him. "This is wonderful."

_Yes it is_ , he thought.

"I'd like to sit for a few minutes before we continue," she said.

"There isn't a bench here. We could go back—"

She released the hold she had around his waist and sunk to the grass beneath the tree, smiling up at him.

"Or we could sit right here," he said with a grin.

He crouched down beside her, then pulled her to him with an arm around her shoulders. She turned almost sideways and drew her knees up to rest against his thigh, then turned her face upward to look at him.

He didn't need an engraved invitation to know she was looking for a kiss, and so lowered his head to meet her lips with his own. The world around him seemed to disappear as his hand cradled the back of her head, taking great delight in a slow, languorous kiss, in eliciting many soft sighs from her throat. He felt her fingers grasping at the front of his shirt, which reminded him he didn't want to take it farther than he was willing to go with her in her delicate state (especially outdoors with the possibility of other people milling about), and that it was probably about time to head back for the second dose of the day. He pulled back from her, caught her gaze with his own and smiled. She looked radiantly beautiful, eyes sparkling, cheeks slightly flushed, breathing unsteadily.

"Let's go back to the room," he said. She blinked, nodding slightly.

After helping her to her feet, he ran his hand over her bottom then slipped an arm around her shoulders again, and they made the short walk back in almost no time at all.

He found it was just a hair past noon when they got back to the room. "I just need to use the loo. Give me three minutes," she said eagerly, then went into the bathroom and closed the door. He went to the bureau, popped out a glutamine and palmed it to warm it up, then sat on the bed waiting for her to emerge. When she did, she was wearing only her knickers and a tee shirt.

"Well, come over here," he said, patting his knee, holding his closed hand up for emphasis.

He might as well have told her there was no Father Christmas for the sudden downturn of her mood, the darkening of her features. 

"Bridget? What is it?"

"Nothing. Just hate the thought of that thing, is all," she said sullenly, then obediently climbed up onto the bed beside him and took her place. As she came nearer to him he noticed the tears in her eyes, which made her docility that much more harder to take. He pulled down her pants, stroked her back and bottom tenderly. She sighed heavily as he did so.

"Darling, are you sure it's nothing?"

"Yes, Mark," came her muffled reply.

As he scrubbed his hands afterwards he wondered if she hadn't realised it was time for her treatment, hence the change in her disposition. She might have even believed… _surely not_ , he thought, scolding himself. _She knows I wouldn't think of attempting anything while she's ill._ He then admonished himself once more for feeling like he had a one track mind: in her ill state, he was sure she was hardly thinking of having sex. __

When he returned to her side, she had dozed off again, curled up around his pillow in a rather foetal-like position. He drew the sheets up over her, delicately brushed her hair from her forehead; as he did so he noticed a small pool of tears in the corner of her eye.

_My poor brave darling_ , he thought, feeling miserable. _When you're well, I'll make it up to you in spades. I promise._

………

_Thursday_

As the week progressed, the routine had become well-established: breakfast with Hugh, treatment, then a nap or a walk; lunch, treatment, nap or cuddling and a movie; dinner, telly, and final treatment before bed. Just after the four p.m. treatment, as Bridget slept and he ticked off yet another mark in his notebook ( _three shots to go_ , he thought slightly giddily), he realised just how overwhelmingly negative his notations about her mood had been. He furrowed his brow. He found it somewhat disheartening that even though she seemed to be physically recovering very well, her mental state was one of obvious melancholy. She seemed to need to be held much more than he would have expected this far into the treatment, not that he thought she should have become inured to the burning, but it seemed more excessive than when she'd actually been sicker. He had expected an upturn in her mood after talking with her friend Tom—especially because Tom was notoriously bringing every conversation back to sex, and the blush on her cheek when asked confirmed what the subject had been—then a lovely joint shower for the first time since they'd been in the country, but she'd seemed as morose as ever for the rest of the evening and into the day.

Surely this was not normal.

He stood, quietly padded to the loo, and closed the door, pulling out his mobile from his pocket and punching in Hugh's number.

"Miss me already?" Hugh said in greeting his friend.

"Hugh, I have a question."

Hugh went silent. "The fever's back?" he asked darkly.

"No, there's no relapse," he said. "Sorry to frighten you. But I am worried."

"Worried about what? If she's still taking her medicine and she hasn't gone feverish again, what's there to worry about?"

"That's part of the problem," he said. "She's been almost too good about taking the medicine."

"I can't believe you're complaining about her being 'too good'."

Mark sighed. "I imagine I'd be less concerned if she weren't so… sad. It's just not like her to be that way."

"She seems all right when I'm there," Hugh said.

"That's true," Mark replied, "but I chalked that up to her putting on a happy face for you. And then there's the clinging."

"Please tell me you're not complaining about a beautiful woman insisting on being in your arms. I might have to kill you when I see you," Hugh quipped.

"Hugh, this is above and beyond. If I don't climb into bed with her after her treatment, she seems even more depressed. And during the night I can barely move for her attachment to me. Between the compliance and the clinging I have to think she's terribly frightened by this whole experience. Is that normal?"

Hugh was silent once more, for so long Mark began to think the call had dropped. Or maybe…

"Hugh? You didn't say something to Bridget to scare her into taking the treatments without argument, did you?"

"Mark!" he said with mock indignation. "What kind of a monster do you think I am? You asked me not to, even though I still think she needs to know the whole truth."

Mark sighed. If it wasn't Hugh, and it wasn't something Hugh felt was overwhelmingly abnormal, then… "Am _I_ doing something wrong?"

"Well… not exactly. The only thing you might be accused of it cluelessness," Hugh said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know about Bridget, specifically, but women tend to have a higher level of… self-consciousness."

Mark fondly remembered his darling fiancée hopping about to get dressed under a tented bed sheet. 

Hugh continued, "Surely you must realise that the method of delivery for her medications is appallingly embarrassing."

Exasperated, he said, "But it's not as if I haven't seen every centimetre of—" He stopped as he realised what he was about to say.

Hugh bellowed a laugh. "You are the absolute living end," he managed. "Here's a girl, newly engaged, invited for a mini-break with her betrothed for a weekend of hot—er, romantic seduction, and is instead subjected to a physically and psychologically difficult treatment for a rather unpleasant tropical disease. This is _not_ the attention she expected her bottom to get."

"Hugh, really—" began Mark, though his insides were chilling with the realisation that what Hugh was saying was probably true, especially considering her own statement to him the morning they'd wrestled over the bag of medicine, how she'd wanted to show him how she'd grown and matured, and instead….

"Add to that your propensity for acting more like her father than her future husband, and voilà, complete and total humiliation."

"But I only want to protect her," Mark said, feeling a bit defensive, "and take care of her the best way I know how."

"I don't doubt that," said Hugh, "and I'm sure that you are. Do you mind me asking you a personal question?"

"Depends on how personal."

"You and Bridget. Do you normally have a pretty healthy sex life?"

_Pretty personal_ , he thought wryly before speaking. "I like to think so," he said, his lips pulled tight.

"More than three times a week?"

Mark exhaled impatiently. "Is there a point to your line of enquiry?"

"Fine. I'll get to the point, and don't complain if it's a little too sharp. How many times have you had sex since I gave you the all clear?"

"Hugh, come on. She's ill. I'll bloody snap her in half."

Surprisingly, Hugh started to laugh. "Nothing at all?"

"Well, not _nothing_ ," he said, bristling. "I'm not inhuman."

"Such as?"

"I am not going to inventory our intimate time together for you."

"I'll assume at least some kissing and maybe what's best termed 'heavy petting'. Am I close?"

Mark blew frustrated air out from between his teeth.

"Right." Mark heard a slurping sound; possibly his friend was having a sip of coffee. "Mark, maybe what Bridget needs is _you_."

"I think that's the last thing she needs."

"I disagree," said Hugh. "It's just what she needs to make her feel like a desirable woman again, and not some sick, weak, helpless child dependent on you."

"I suppose if you put it like that…."

"Trust me on this. Go on out there and give her what-for."

"I'll think about it."

Hugh scoffed. "You think too much, old man." He paused to sip again. "I have to go. See you in the morning?"

"Sure."

He deposited his phone back into his pocket and exited the bathroom. Bridget hadn't budged. Gingerly he sat beside her but the movement was nevertheless enough to wake her and she looked up to him, blinking sleepily, then smiling half-heartedly up at him. "Did I sleep very long?"

"Not very, no. How are you feeling?"

"About as you'd expect."

He stood up just enough to push the covers back before sitting again, then reached for her hand, very aware of the feel of her ring against his palm. "Darling, come here."

Her face crumpled with disappointment. "Don't tell me it's already eight."

"No, not even close. Just… come here."

Warily, she sat up and as she did he embraced her under her arms and pulled her onto his lap, drawing her close, burying his face into her hair.

"I could probably do with a shower," she said in a small voice what seemed right next to his ear. "I'm sure I'm a bit ripe."

"You smell wonderful," he said, and he was not exaggerating. He cradled the back of her head with one hand, stroked her back with the other, kissing into her hair. "You smell like you."

He felt her relax a little, returning the embrace; her voice was a bit more confident when she spoke again. "You smell pretty nice, yourself."

He closed his eyes, inhaled again, thought about what Hugh had said, but she felt so small in his arms, so tiny and fragile, that he could hardly imagine letting his passion go, imagine enjoying himself as always without stopping every thirty seconds to make sure he wasn't actually hurting her. He did, however, want to remind her that he loved her and still longed for her, even if it meant continued forbearance for the time being.

He could feel her warm skin through the cotton of her nightgown, and he moved his hand in broad ovals on her back. He reared his head back just enough to nuzzle into her neck, placing tender, light kisses just under her lobe. She sighed with the pleasure of it, music to his ears.

"I do love you, you know," he said quietly as he continued to hold her to him.

"I know," she whispered back.

He did want her; that was always true. It was just the war within his own mind that held him back: intellectually knowing it was all right versus concern and care for her fragility. He knew he would never be able to wait until she was back to the fully-curved woman he knew and loved, but having the rough duty of administering her treatment yet ahead of him was a huge mental block. He decided then on a compromise, that after the last treatment on Saturday night he would treat her to a long, slow, attentive round of lovemaking; at least, the slowest that he could stand.

He pulled back enough to kiss her temple, then looked into her eyes as he brushed her hair back from her face. "So," he said, deliberately far from the subject currently in the forefront of his thoughts, "shall it be chicken or beef broth tonight?"

She smiled. Even with no makeup, with her skin seeming even paler than it usually was, hair unkempt from her nap, he felt his heart in his throat; how beautiful she was in his eyes. "I'll go with chicken. And can you ask and see if they have any crackers I can eat? And more orange juice."

"Of course."

"And maybe we can get that movie I wanted to see last night, the romantic comedy where the women trade flats—"

He nodded, smiling wryly. _Romantic comedies,_ he thought; _It must be love._

It was a challenge to tear himself from her, but he did so, bringing her hand up to graze a kiss upon her knuckles before stepping off to the house phone.

……… 

_2 nd Friday_

It had become almost a habit for Mark to rise well before Hugh arrived. He'd gotten up, ordered breakfast for delivery at around seven, then decided to let Bridget sleep and showered on his own. After dressing, he went to Bridget's side to wake her, pulling the duvet down from over her head.

"I can't wait to actually sleep in," she said in a grouchy tone, turning over and combing her fingers through sleep-tousled hair, blinking from the bright morning light.

"You're sleeping all the time anyway," Mark teased, "so I don't know what difference getting up this early makes."

She stuck her tongue out at him playfully, but then smiled. "I slept very, very well, though."

"I'm glad to hear." He raised his hand, brushing his fingers over her forehead to further bring her locks under control. "You look so much better than you did a few days ago. Still too thin," he said with a smirk, "but very good indeed."

When she smiled so unguardedly, almost bashfully, his heart swelled with love. He would do anything for her. Anything. He might have even been tempted to set aside his promise to himself but for his friend's imminent arrival.

"Hugh should be here soon, and so should breakfast."

He watched her brows draw close, as if some puzzle pieces clicked into place in her head. "It's seven?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you wake me sooner? I'm sure I look like arse."

"You look fine," he said, "and Hugh's already seen you at your worst."

The glare that this comment garnered him told him he might have been a little bit more diplomatic with his choice of words. "Get off the covers so I can get up. I at least should use the toilet and brush my teeth."

He stood then helped her up out of bed, smoothing down her blue floral-patterned nightgown. He realised he might have been looking a little too intently because she frowned at him.

"It's nothing," he said before she could ask. "I just like the way you look in that."

She smiled again. "I'm amazed that even though _you've_ seen me at my worst, you can still say things like that," she said; he knew that although she said it in a light, joking tone, the thought did astound her.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her full on the mouth before pulling away again. "And that I can do that before you've even brushed your teeth should tell you all you need to know. Now go on." He released her waist then playfully smacked her bottom.

Breakfast arrived while she was in the bathroom. He was setting the little table with their plates of food and their respective beverages and she was just finishing brushing her teeth when another knock heralded Hugh's arrival.

Bridget emerged from the bathroom with a bright smile and a robe over her nightgown, saying, "I'll get it," sweeping over to the door before he had a chance to protest. She swung the door open. 

The look of astonishment on Hugh's face was easily visible from Mark's position at the small table. "I guess _you're_ feeling better," he said, his features quickly forming a smile. "Good morning to the both of you."

"Good morning," she said, stepping aside to allow him in.

Hugh had a small white paper bag in his hand and he wondered if Hugh had somehow forgotten Mark had insisted on buying breakfast from now on. Bridget noticed it too, yet her face clouded over. "What have you brought? More medicine?" she asked warily.

He chuckled. "Nope. A surprise for you, especially since I won't be able to join you for breakfast this weekend."

Her eyes widened. "For me?"

He nodded, opening the bag. "You can thank a ruptured water line for this. I had to take a different route from my flat and passed by a new bakery. There was a big sign in the window that said they specialised in vegan baked goods. So…" He reached in and pulled out what appeared to be…

"A chocolate muffin? Seriously?" 

"Two, actually, even though they're large."

"Thank you!" she said, taking the bag in one hand and a muffin in the other.

"Hugh, are you sure she's up for this? And what about your oatmeal?" asked Mark.

"Oh, stuff the oatmeal!" She held the muffin greedily, looked at it covetously, then took a bite, chewing and savouring the food in her mouth with utter delight on her face as if she had never eaten anything so delicious in her life. "Oh my God, chocolate chips too! I'm in heaven."

Hugh looked penitent. "Mark, I'm sorry, I should have let you know I was making that detour."

Seeing how happy Bridget was, he waved his hand as if to brush the whole matter aside. "Don't worry. Come on, French toast is getting cold."

Mark and Hugh took seats at the table. Unsurprisingly, Bridget sat on Mark's lap, but not before bending to plant a peck on Hugh's cheek, beaming a smile.

"Maybe save a muffin for later and eat the oatmeal too. It's more nutritious," he said, slipping a hand around her waist.

"I'll see what I have room for after this glorious, fantastic, best muffin ever," she said, taking another generous bite. Mark could not help but chuckle.

"I feel like I've created a monster," said Hugh, pouring syrup over his slabs of French toast. Mark reached and handed Bridget her cup of coffee before getting his own breakfast poised in hand.

"Nope. I've loved chocolate since long before I ever met you," Bridget said, the corner of her mouth crooked up.

"Maybe we can pull out all the stops and get vegetable soup for lunch," he said. She turned and looked to him with her mouth formed in an O in a look of mock surprise. He found himself mimicking her expression, then they started laughing simultaneously before she leaned forward and briefly kissed him on the lips.

Mark caught the tail end of Hugh's amused look, one brow raised in surprise.

Bridget handed Mark her empty coffee cup then he felt her absently combing her fingers through his hair as he watched her raise the last of the muffin to pop it into her mouth. "Oh, that was fantastic," she sighed, leaning into Mark, resting her cheek against his temple. "Sadly, though, no room for oatmeal."

Mark insisted: "Bridget, come on. Have at least half the bowl. It's good for you."

"No way. I'm going to burst if I eat another thing."

"I thought you liked oatmeal," Hugh teased.

"I do. Just not usually every bloody day." Mark could tell she said it with a smile.

Hugh set his empty plate down on the table, and brought the napkin up to dab stray syrup from his mouth before drinking the rest of his coffee and setting the cup beside the plate.

"Should go. Appointments call."

Bridget slid from his lap to allow Mark to stand. "I've got to hop in the shower, anyway. Thanks for the breakfast. It was very good."

Hugh grinned. "I'm glad you approved."

She smiled, wrapping her arms about her waist, closing the robe, looking like she was feeling suddenly bashful. "Since I'm not sure we'll see you before we leave: Thanks again for everything, Hugh. It was so very nice to meet you."

"The feeling's mutual," Hugh replied. 

She smiled and, obviously still feeling too shy at being in a robe and nightgown to hug him, reached forward, took one of Hugh's hands in both of hers and squeezed it tenderly, before heading into the bathroom.

Mark expected his friend to leave as Bridget left the room, but as the water came on in the shower, Hugh walked away from the door and closer to Mark again.

"She seemed in exceptional spirits," Hugh said.

"Chocolate does that," Mark joked.

Hugh made a dismissive sound. "So the shagging last night had nothing to do with it," he said, winking.

"There was no shagging," Mark said.

Hugh looked shocked. "Are you mad?"

"She just needed a little extra cuddling and attention."

Hugh just shook his head in disbelief.

Mark explained, "I won't take advantage of her during her treatment, until I know she's recovered. That's more important than anything I might want."

Hugh then rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I don't think you're human, Mark Darcy," he said, grinning impishly before ducking out into the hallway. His smile slipped into one that looked a little more reflective, and he added, "I guess that means it's really love."

Mark thought his smile was probably confirmation enough.

Mark gathered the plates from the table and set them back on the tray for collection later by housekeeping. He went over to the bed, straightened the sheet then pulled back the corner in anticipation of the impending treatment.

She came out of the bathroom rubbing a towel into her hair and smiling. Mark was immediately suspicious. "Why the grin?" he asked.

"Fond memories of breakfast," she joked before approaching him, tossing the towel onto the bed, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply.

His hands caught her at the waist, allowing the kiss but then gently pushing her away. "Love, it's eight."

It pained him to see her so visibly deflate. _Two more shots_ , he told himself, _and two more days of glutamine; the worst is over, and then she'll be well._

The usual look of resignation spread across her face. She knew the end of the treatment cycle was near, and surely she would bear the remaining ones with stoicism. He touched her under her chin then broke away from her for the bureau, returning momentarily with the needed paraphernalia. He took her hand and pulled her with him to the bed.

After administering both doses, he washed up as usual then was careful to return quickly to the bed to hold her close as the drugs worked their way through her system. He was happy to stay that way as long as she needed. With his nose nuzzled against her hair, spooned up against her back, he thought for sure she'd gone back to sleep when he heard her ask, "Mark?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you know what I'd really like?" she asked softly, running her fingers over his knuckles.

Almost afraid to ask, he did anyway. "What?"

She turned over to fix him with great big irresistible blue eyes. "My other muffin, please. With some orange juice?"

He laughed quietly, kissing the tip of her nose. He really would do anything for her.


	5. Chapter 5

_2 nd Friday_

As he ran his fingers over the field of small red dots on her bottom, he smiled, thinking about the week that had passed. Though necessary, injecting her had not been an easy duty, and it was with great pleasure he announced it was the final shot. Her glee at this was infectious and it helped to obliterate the guilt he had developed in having caused her even this unavoidable pain. He felt there was only now one true hurdle to go, and he was thrilled. They'd had a really wonderful day: the longest walk they had taken so far, the most solid food she'd had since falling ill (save for the muffin), and her full interaction as they watched another movie with dinner. He had not been happier since they'd gotten back together, since she'd said yes (in so many words) to his proposal.

He'd pushed her to lie flat for a little bit longer, then handed her a glass of orange juice. As he took away the empty glass, he touched her hair. Something about the feel of those silken strands on the pads of his fingers struck him a little differently than it had for the whole of the time they'd been there; instead of caretaker he actually felt like boyfriend, fiancé, lover.

With some chagrin he remembered his promise to himself. Her treatment was not over; she had a day's worth of the pills left to go. There was no harm, however, in giving her a little extra something to make her feel like the desirable woman she was.

Slipping his arm across her back, he leaned forward and began placing tender kisses just below her ear, then gently took the lobe between his teeth and grazed the skin. With a soft sigh, she turned over, pushed herself up to fiercely embrace him and took his mouth with her own.

He held her waist as he leaned her back onto the pillow, then reached for the hem of her nightgown. She had liked it well enough the last time he'd done this, and she'd taken her treatments so willingly for the most part there was no reason not to—

It was the feel of her fingers on the button of his trousers that caused him to pull away from her. "Oh Bridget, no," he said softly. "That's not what I had in mind."

"It's what I want, though," she replied, heaving for air, her eyes round and pleading. "I've been such a good girl, and… _God_ , do I need you. I just can't stand it anymore."

He simply looked at her, his thoughts jumbled. Yes, he'd told himself to wait, but the look in her eyes, the anguish in her voice… he knew he could not deny her anything any longer. He could still be gentle. Decisively he rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, pulling a few wrapped condoms from a zippered section of his travel case. He returned to the bedside. Her expression was pure confusion as he dropped them to the nightstand, switched on the lamp, and went to turn off the larger, brighter lamp. She pushed herself up onto her elbows again and took a closer look at the nightstand, then to him as he began to undress, and she smiled at last.

He divested her of the favoured blue nightgown before sitting beside her on the bed. It struck him yet again how thin she'd become, and he stroked her shoulder with his hand. "I can't get over the feeling that I could hurt you. You look so… delicate."

"I have a solution for that, then."

She rose to her knees then straddled his lap, coming very close to him. He ran his palms along her upper arms and smiled, taking her in, realising just how very much he had missed her. It then hit him how much he wanted her; suddenly eager to begin the long-delayed reunion, he leaned forward to attempt to kiss her, but she moved away.

"Perhaps you should…" He watched her gaze dart to the nightstand and to the protection that sat there. Of course she was right. He did not want to have to think about that once he'd started in earnest, so he reached for one of the wrapped discs and made use of its contents.

It felt so good to touch her that he could not help but want to touch every square inch of her body delicately, as if somehow he might have forgotten where all of his favourite spots were. As he leaned forward to capture her mouth with a long, slow, passionate kiss, his fingertips practically read the skin of her breasts, hips and thighs. Her stuttered breath on his skin between kisses, her nails grazing upon his shoulders, her quiet begging for more spurred him to please her even more ardently; he turned his mouth to her jaw then throat, causing her to tilt her hips forward into him.

He took her mouth again, and this time it was surprising even to him how impatient and desperate he was to kiss her. She pushed her chest against his then nipped on his lower lip, her nails threading up into his hair, raking against his scalp.

What followed the gasp that issued from his throat was nothing like the slow lovemaking he'd had in mind, but the sounds she was making from beneath him—because despite his fears of hurting her, his desire to please her was even greater, and he could best do so with gravity on his side—indicated his efforts were succeeding beyond either's expectations.

"Oh," she said many breathless moments after their pleasure had peaked. He'd turned so that she was lying upon him; as he closed his eyes, he sighed and ran his hands down over her arse. The tiny bumps were still there but soon they would be gone, a memory to be replaced with the likes of far more pleasant ones such as this. He pressed his fingers into her bottom and she giggled.

"Ready for more?" she teased.

"Mmm," he said; at least he meant to say it, but it came out sounding more like a throaty growl.

"Right." She dove down upon him with another kiss and he was powerless to do anything but respond in kind. Perhaps it had been foolish of him not to grab more than just a handful of condoms to have within reach; at least in their current position he didn't have to worry about injuring her.

………

_2 nd Saturday_

"Darling."

His single word roused her from the doze she had slipped into after the latest round. "Oh, Mark, I was just drifting off into a lovely sleep. I know we have some lost time to make up for but honestly…"

He chuckled. "Not that." He sat up, kicked back the sheets, and reached for the cotton nightgown he'd stripped her of earlier. "I want you to put this back on. I don't want you getting chilled during the night."

She laughed sleepily, but sat up as she slipped the nightie up over her head, then lifted her bottom as he tugged it down to cover her thighs. He spooned up behind her again. "Besides," she murmured as if she continued to argue against dressing, "it's hard to get chilled with your lovely warm body to curl up to."

He tightened the arm around her waist, nuzzled his nose into her hair. Truer words were never spoken.

………

Mark woke with the sun the next morning, feeling more refreshed than he had in days… _no_ , he thought, _weeks._ He turned gently, saw Bridget sleeping still, and smiled. It was a good night, and rather than being broken or injured she was quite the opposite: almost as if whole again, fully healed. The remaining glutamine seemed a mere formality.

He decided to let her sleep a little longer; she had spent most of yesterday awake without napping, had stayed up rather later than she'd gotten used to, and so could probably have used the sleep. He rose and dressed, then went to the phone to order breakfast for the two of them: "An order of French toast, some steel cut oatmeal with honey and brown sugar, a glass of orange juice and two coffees."

He heard the stirring of the linens from the bed, and turned to look at her, a smile automatically finding his mouth. She looked sleepy still and mussed, but absolutely ravishing. "Thank you," he said in conclusion, then returned the phone to its cradle before explaining what he had ordered.

"Sounds lovely," she said, and he thought she must have only agreed to oatmeal because of the muffins yesterday.

He strode to the bed and sat beside her. "How are you?"

She smiled. "Better than ever."

Wanting to be sure, he continued tentatively, "I hope last night wasn't too much for you—"

She was quick to interrupt: "Nonsense. It was _fantastic_. Beyond compare."

Gently cradling her hand with his face, he smiled, entranced by her blue eyes. "I'm glad. I had very much _missed_ you." Remembering what had yet to happen, he said, dropping his hand and standing to head for the bureau, "Well. Let's get this over with before breakfast arrives."

"Get what over with?" she asked, clearly perplexed.

"The glutamine…?" he said, furrowing his brow. What else could he be talking about?

" _What?!_ " She pushed herself up, looking alarmed. "You told me we were done!"

"With the shots, yes; I told you it was the last one right before I did it. But you have one more day of these." He held up the bubble packaging, feeling at once terrible that she had misunderstood his words, but resolving to be firm that she completed the treatment.

"Oh, no way, _no way_. That is _not_ happening. I am _finished_ ," she said with finality, holding up her hands as if to stop his approach.

He felt exasperation welling up inside of him. "Bridget, you have to. It balances out what the antibiotic is doing."

"But I've finished that."

"It's still in your body, though, and it's a much bigger dose than regular antibiotics. Without it the antibiotic will wreak—"

Her jaw set with determination. "Mark, I don't know how I can possibly describe to you how absolutely _awful_ they are. The indignity of— _you know_ , then the burning, the terrible burning…" 

"I know, but it's one more day. Three more capsules. Then you're home free."

"Absolutely not." As if to underscore her point, she folded her arms across her chest. 

" _Bridget_ ," he said, feeling the exasperation turn to anger. "You will finish your treatment."

"What are you going to do, make me?" she taunted. "I'm starting to think you might secretly enjoy tormenting me!"

That she would in good conscience accuse him of taking pleasure in hurting her actually flared his anger into a white-hot rage; he strode ever closer again and forcefully grabbed her wrist. "If you want to be treated like a child, _that_ can be arranged." 

Their unblinking eyes locked in challenge. "You wouldn't dare."

He dropped to sit on the bed and quickly, before she could react to what he was doing, he pulled her across his lap, holding her shoulders firmly down with his left arm and pressing his right elbow down into the small of her back. As expected, she protested, but he continued holding her down even as he raised the lower hem of her nightgown.

"Mark!"

"Bridget," he said firmly, releasing her somewhat to reach for the tablet. As expected, she arced sideways in an effort to get away. " _Bridget!_ " he exclaimed, bringing his hand sharply and forcefully down on her bare arse, not just once, but three times rapid-fire.

She cried out in disbelief.

He drove his elbow into her back once more. She went shockingly quiet. He advised her in no uncertain terms: "You're having this treatment, Bridget, so hold still. Don't make this any worse for either of us." He then reached over for the flat of pills.

She remained perfectly still, and in fact did not say another word as he ejected the tablet from its wrapper, warmed it in his hand, then proceeded to dose her.

Neither said anything, not during, not after. He could do nothing but gaze at the red welts his slaps had raised and reflect on what he had done, feeling a curious mix of condemnation and justification coursing through him. To have smacked her, _spanked_ her, should have made him feel guilty and he did feel guilty to an extent, but to have so childishly refused the remainder of her treatment, three final doses, had incensed him almost as much as her accusation that he somehow took pleasure in her torment. What else could he have done? He'd had no choice; she had to be made to take her remaining doses. A relapse at this point over what amounted to a tantrum would have been an unacceptable risk. This was the only conclusion he could come to regardless of whichever angle he approached it from.

He rose afterwards, still saying nothing, and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, to scrub his fingernails with diligent attention, focusing on how he would address her when he went back out there. He still felt angry, but she had to know that he only had her best interest at heart. He looked at himself in the mirror, fixing his eyes to his reflection. If his actions were justly warranted, why did he dread going out there so much?

When he finally did, he found that breakfast—and much to his surprise, Hugh—had arrived in his absence. Hugh was beside the bed, the backs of his fingers pressed against her forehead, as if feeling for a fever, and was asking her, "What's going on?"

"She refused the glutamine," Mark supplied flatly.

As usual, Hugh was quick to make a joke as he turned to look at Mark. "And you what? Gave her a spanking?" Mark said nothing, betrayed no change in his countenance. Hugh added with a certain sense of horror, "Oh my God, you _didn't_."

Mark continued, ignoring Hugh's comment. "She was refusing to take the last three because we finished the antibiotic last night. She misunderstood and thought last night was the end of _all_ of it. And after what you said, about how devastating the effects of the doxycycline would be without it, I couldn't bear to think of her in such a state due to sheer stubbornness—" He stopped suddenly, touching his forehead with his fingertips. "I was frustrated, and afraid, and a little bit angry."

Hugh turned to look back to Bridget. "Is that true?"

She admitted: "Yes. He did spank me." It was difficult to judge her tone, but he guessed she was pretty mortified.

"No," Hugh said. "I meant about refusing the treatment."

She looked surprised by his tone. "Yes, it's true."

Hugh sighed, then patiently explained the reason for continuing the glutamine for one day beyond the antibiotic shot. Mark looked from Bridget to Hugh, watched her face change ever so subtly, watched Hugh tenderly take Bridget's hand for reassurance, and realised keeping things from her was not his brightest idea. "…it's either two more rather nasty capsules," concluded Hugh, "or a day of agony, vomiting, weakness, et cetera, with the possibility of the whole thing starting all over again."

She looked to Mark accusingly. "You might have explained that sooner!"

He pinched the corner of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, barely hearing the rest of her complaint. It was pointless to argue that he had been trying to do that very thing when they had begun to fight.

"He was afraid enough about your health," Hugh explained. "He didn't want to cause you to worry on top of it. I think he figured you'd just do it because he asked you to."

He saw Bridget look down to her hands, then look to Hugh with such a look on her face that he knew almost immediately what her thoughts were: _I thought he was just overreacting._ And he thought that maybe inside Hugh was agreeing.

Hugh said, "I see your breakfast has arrived. Don't suppose you have an extra coffee on that tray for me, hm?"

"You can have mine." As she said it, she turned to meet Mark's gaze.

"Too kind, you're too kind. I believe this orange juice and oatmeal is for you?" Hugh brought the rest of her breakfast to her, stared at the small dishes on the side. "Brown sugar? Really? Not… boiled with a little salt?" As he asked, his voice slipped into one of the crazy voices he liked to use all through their time in university, his ridiculous Old Scottish Woman voice. He heard Bridget's laugh, heard the spoon hitting the side of the bowl as she stirred in the brown sugar and honey. He felt himself smiling too.

"So I have a little story for you, Bridget," Hugh began, launching into an old university story that Mark thought had little to no bearing on anything until he realised Hugh was going to explain how the nickname of Captain had come into being.

He said, "Hugh, no."

With an unholy glee in his eye and in his tone, Hugh carried on, telling her about their fondness of a certain science fiction show as well as debate team, how Mark had been chosen to head the team, and how he had inevitably been nicknamed accordingly.

Mark insisted once more that Hugh stop with the story at about the same time Bridget made the mental connection between the nickname and which show it had come from.

"Please tell me," Bridget began, "that this highly-anticipated show was not about seeking out new life and new civilisations, and splitting infinitives where no one has split them before."

Straight-faced, Hugh replied, "I couldn't possibly do that. That would be lying."

They bantered back and forth for a while but when Hugh made to reach for a photo he claimed he had in his pocket, Mark felt the need to speak up again, expressing with disdain that he was glad to provide such amusement at his own expense.

"The point of this tale is: first of all, to make _you_ smile—" Hugh turned, looking to Bridget in an exaggerated way; she was smiling. "—and secondly, to remind my good friend there what it's like to be humiliated in front of one's life partner and future spouse." Hugh met Mark's eyes. "She was only tolerating this terrible treatment because she wanted to please you. Um. Poor choice of words. She wanted to make you pleased and maybe even a little proud, bravely soldiering on with the only treatment option available, which, as I recall, did involve something she is mortally terrified of." Injections. "I can't imagine being in that position, thinking she's done only to find out she's not…" Hugh turned back to Bridget again. "Positively ego-shattering."

While he was pleased to an extent that Hugh would stand in defence of Bridget, a woman he'd known for only a week, he thought Hugh was perhaps assuming a little too much. "I don't mean to shoot down your nice little story, Hugh," said Mark, "but how can you possibly know her motives?"

Mark had not seen Hugh look so serious in all the years he'd known his friend. He spoke again. "I know because when I told you we'd talked and she'd agreed to stay on course and not fight further treatment, they were little white lies. I didn't really expect her to play along, but the fact that she did told me everything I needed to know about her feelings for you—and why she did agree to continue."

Mark felt a little rocked back on his heels at the realisation that her compliance was solely to make him happy and not due to doctor's orders. He looked at Bridget, whose teary eyes shone as she nodded to confirm Hugh's words. Knowing how much she hated the shots and the suppositories, he was touched beyond measure that she would do that for him. He stepped closer to her, holding his hand out; he saw her eyes well with more tears as she took it and squeezed gently.

They simply looked to one another, their eyes saying everything the other needed to hear. Mark heard Hugh say, "Do I need to leave for the apology portion of this conversation? I don't want to be here if there's going to be kissing. Is there going to be kissing?"

Looking away to his friend, Mark laughed lightly. "Perhaps after breakfast."

"Perhaps _not_." He felt his hand tugged downward and into a kiss. He pulled back to meet her eyes again. She said sorrowfully, "I'm sorry I'm such a nightmare."

He rose to set the tray of breakfast aside to that he might sit properly and enfold her in his arms, touching her hair tenderly. "I'm sorry I did that. You can indeed be maddening but you wouldn't be _you_ if you weren't. You'd be… _boring_. And I never want to be bored."

With her cheek against his shirt, he could feel the warmth of her breath on his chest. And then she turned her face up to him and kissed him fully.

"Uh. Feeling distinctly third-wheelish, here."

Bridget pulled back with a chuckle, and wiped tears from her face; he hoped they were tears of happiness. Mark felt heat crawl across his face. "Sorry," she said.

Mark said in a low tone, "No you're not." He smiled, running his hand over her hair then standing. It occurred to him just then that he had not asked Hugh what prompted the visit, as Hugh had specifically told them he wouldn't be by for breakfast.

"Well, I had business in Wellesbourne proper so I figured I'd stop by for one last check-up on the patient here. And I'd say she's quite recovered."

Mark spoke up, "Let us take you to dinner tonight, before we leave."

"Can't. Have a prior engagement." He caught the tail end of a wink to Bridget.

Bridget piped up with, "Come and see us in London some time, then."

He smiled, raising his fingers to his chin. "Well, I suppose I'll have to hand-cart my bill up to you, seeing as it will be too heavy for the post. Plus I still need to collect on that bet." He glanced to Bridget, then back to Mark again. "Well. I should be off."

"Don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you enough." Bridget reached to give him a hug.

He said something quietly into her ear as he hugged her back, then reached into his pocket to give her something. He waved and then left. Bridget turned away from Mark to unfold whatever Hugh had handed her, and she veritably squeaked with delight.

" _Bridget_ …"

Beaming a wide smile, he looked to see that Hugh had brought a photo of him from their university debate days. "You were _very_ cute in your burgundy jumper and brass tack pips."

"I am going to kill him."

"Oh, Mark." She came near to him, touched his arm with her fingertips. "If you like I can show you my scary pictures from age twelve with the terrible bobbed haircut and a mouth full of metal."

He could not help but smile, and turned to embrace her. "I bet you were adorable."

"Ugh. Not even a little bit. I was trying desperately to be Madonna, and only with the wisdom of age can I see I failed miserably."

His smile grew broader at the mental image of her wearing armloads of rubber bracelets and giant hoop earrings; he didn't have to imagine the short skirts though, because he saw those often enough. "I can't wait to see."

"Oh, God. I'm sorry I offered now." She leaned forward and buried her face in his chest with shame, then turned her face to rest against his pec, her arms encircling him.

"Mark?" he heard her ask, her voice slightly muffled by his chest.

"Yes?"

"Can we have a do-over?"

"What?"

She pulled away just far enough to look at him like he was mad to not understand what she meant. "A morning-after do-over?"

With a chuckle he realised he ought to have known exactly what she meant. "Anything you want," he said as he brushed her locks from her face. "I'll even order a second breakfast if you like. Your oatmeal looks rather like wall spackle, and my French toast is now suitable for sanding with."

She rested her cheek against his shirt again; he heard and felt her sigh heavily, felt her hands, her fingertips, moving across the planes of his back, tracing a line along his spine. He was suddenly very grateful for last night, as it meant he didn't have to think about whether or not she would be able to handle his desires; she'd already amply proven that. Her voice slightly husky, she then informed him of a need to change plans: "I take it back. Instead I want to rewind to sometime last night."

Capital idea. As he reared back to kiss her again, he said in a low tone, "That too can be arranged."

In a flash they were upon the bed and thankfully for a lack of smalls as well as the wrapped discs remaining in the nightstand, there were no further impediments to the perfect morning do-over.

………

He might have laid there all morning long, basking in the afterglow, holding her against him, drawing his fingers over her bare skin, but he had begun to feel light-headed from lack of sustenance and she had truly not eaten enough solid food in far too long.

Her lovely throaty _marrrrrrrvelous_ roused him from his doze, and he enquired with a monosyllabic, "Hm?" When she explained that she meant the spontaneous shag, a chuckle escaped him and he said, "All that's left is to get some meat back on your bones." His fingers trailed to her hip; she shivered. He furrowed his brow, suddenly worried. She was, after all, lying there completely in the buff. "Are you cold?"

"That was not from cold, my dear." She stretched and kissed him.

_Man cannot live by bread alone,_ he thought wryly. He pulled back before she could get carried away again, suggesting perhaps a trip down to the café for a late breakfast. She pouted at the interruption but by the time she got fully dressed he swore he heard her stomach rumbling.

"You look great."

She looked dubious as she put on her shoes. "You're just saying that because you're hungry."

"And because I want to get you back into bed later," he advised, very seriously.

Her smile told him she would hardly need persuading.

………

"I should have called you."

His words had come after a long stretch of comfortable silence; he was holding her in her arms after her noon treatment, and had been thinking about the weeks he'd been without her. The change she'd made in his life was subtle but profound, and he hadn't really appreciated what he'd had until it was gone, how hollow his life had been before she'd been in it.

"I don't know why I didn't," he continued. "Why I stayed away. I guess I thought I had to give you your space."

He felt her arms briefly tighten about him before she spoke. "I knew I'd made a mistake the moment I left. I think I must have eaten my weight in Ben & Jerry's." When she spoke again, her voice was very much quieter. "I wish you had called."

"I wish you'd come back."

"Ah." She pulled back to meet his eyes, deviltry in her own. "But I did."

He felt a grin creep across his face. "That's true. And better late than not at all."

She chuckled. "I'll remind you of that the next time I don't show up on time to the cinema." She then leaned forward to kiss him, and he drew her up onto him.

He had certainly missed this, too; not just loving her body, but her enthusiasm and willingness and obvious enjoyment of their intimate time together, unlike his past partners, who seemed to merely tolerate it as a small price to pay in the hope of landing such a prestigious catch at the foot of an altar.

He plied her throat and jaw with tender kisses afterward, almost as if he were apologising for putting her through such a rigorous workout. The notion was, of course, ridiculous, as her happy sighs and feline-like stretches attested.

She returned the favour by kissing his cheek with a flurry of light kisses. "I want you to know," she said, rising to meet his eyes, "that I don't think I can ever adequately thank you for all you've done for me."

Stroking her shoulder, running his fingertips over the soft cotton of the nightgown, he said, "I wasn't about to let you languish in a Thai prison, regardless of how you felt about me."

"I don't mean that," she said, placing a kiss upon his chin. "I mean, yes, that too of course. But I mean for _this_. For taking care of me. For giving me the shots and the pills." She kissed his cheek. "I know you didn't enjoy tormenting me, as I so rudely accused." She then kissed the other cheek. "You did it because it's what was best for me."

He had no words in reply; he simply smiled and pulled her close again, brushing his lips against the hair of her temple, content with holding her to him. He wasn't sure he could trust his voice to be steady, anyway. He hadn't realised how much he needed to hear her say that until she did.

With a measure of sadness he realised it would be their last night there, and he decided on the spot to try to make it up to her in some small way: perhaps a bit of pampering at the salon, something new to wear, a dinner in the grand dining room…

Suddenly he remembered that dress he'd seen at the little boutique in which he had purchased her nightgowns, pale green and white and watercolour-painted with leaves, moonstone beads and long floating silk. He knew at once he would have to go back for it.

He then realised that he had no idea where the shop actually was, and he didn't fancy driving around Stratford in the hopes he might spot it. That coupled with guilt for not having properly said goodbye to his friend, he knew he'd have to call Hugh.

He looked down to Bridget to see she had fallen fast asleep. It would, at least, save him the trouble of having to make up an excuse to leave her behind, because he wanted the dress to be a surprise. He was fairly confident in his ability to gauge her dress size; after all, he'd gotten the nightgowns right.

He slipped out from the bed, located his slightly rumpled clothing and dressed himself again. He scrawled a brief note to Bridget on hotel stationery, left it on her bedside table then, key in pocket, he departed the room.

Once in the hallway, he pulled out his mobile and dialled Hugh.

"Mark!" Hugh said upon answering the phone. "Get off the phone and get back to that lovely lady of yours."

Mark chuckled, then decided to come straight to the point. "I need to make a trip back to that boutique in Stratford and I need you to help me find it."

"It's your lucky day," he said. "I was about to have a lunch break. Care for another sandwich?"

"I am feeling a bit peckish, thanks. Though it's my turn to buy."

"Roger. I'll meet you in the same car park we met in before. Over and out."

………

They decided to eat their sandwiches before going to the shop, and since it was a lovely day, they sat on a bench beneath a broad oak tree near where Mark had parked.

"I didn't get to properly thank you before, Hugh," said Mark, swallowing a bite of turkey and provolone cheese on wholegrain bread.

"Hey, it's nothing," Hugh said.

"No, I'm serious. I'm not sure what I would have done without you."

"Probably just have brought her here, to Accident and Emergency," he quipped, before turning slightly more serious. "Mark, for everything you did for me during my divorce… it's what friends do for friends. Don't worry about it."

Mark smiled, taking another bite. After washing it down with a swallow of bottled water, he said, "I meant what I said about billing me."

Hugh nodded. "I know you did. And I meant what I said too about my bill." He winked.

"Fair enough. Whatever the price, it's been worth it."

After a few minutes, Hugh crumpled up the white deli paper that had been wrapped around his sandwich, and stuffed it back into the carrier bag. "So what are you buying? More nightgowns?"

Mark finished the rest of his sandwich too, took another long swallow of water then recapped the bottle. "A dress."

Hugh raised his eyebrow.

"For _Bridget_ ," he added, laughing and clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Besides, she hardly needs nightgowns anymore," he said with a wink. "Come on."

As Hugh drove them back to the boutique, Mark was careful to mentally note the route and the street names should he ever need to find it again. They found themselves in the store in short order and Mark went right to where he'd seen the dress he wanted to buy… only to find it wasn't there. The whole rack of dresses was just gone.

He went from rack to rack, and didn't see anything in that lovely shade of green at all. He felt irrationally panicked. All the while, Hugh looked irrepressibly amused.

"Is there something particular you were looking for?"

A tall woman with angular features approached him, her blonde hair pinned back into a chignon at the base of her neck, looking as if she were concerned for his sanity.

"Yes. I was in last Saturday and right there—" He pointed to the offending rack. "—you had this beautiful ivory and green dress. Thin straps, beads. Silk, I think, and it almost looked like it was painted with watercolours."

She smiled. "Oh yes. The dress with the leaves. We had to move it to make way for the autumn line. Let me show you where it is."

She was able to lead him right to it; its location was not obvious at a glance and he was grateful for her assistance. She pulled it off of the rack and held it up for his approval. "Is this it?"

"Yes," he said, relief in his voice. "That's the one. Although if there's another in a slightly larger size…" He held up a hand. "She's about this tall." Then he stretched out both hands. "And about this wide at the hips. Plus she would definitely need more… well. Room in front."

The sales clerk tried very hard to keep her composure, though she was clearly amused. "Do you know the lady's size?"

"I don't, but I'll be able to tell if it's the right size by looking at it."

Hugh smirked.

There was, thankfully, one he was sure would fit her perfectly, and as he paid for it, Mark said, "What's so funny?"

"It's refreshing to see you this way, that's all."

"What way?" he asked. He caught the clerk hiding a smile.

"Let's just say I'm glad you've found someone you know so… intimately."

Mark felt it best to refrain from encouraging further comment in the store.

Once back on the street, Hugh continued his teasing: "I can't imagine anyone you didn't know so intimately spurring you to a spanking."

_Oh no_ , thought Mark. _Not this._

"Staid, stiff, unemotional Mark, driven to a smack or two? It's unthinkable." They got back into Hugh's car to head back to Mark's.

"I'm glad you're having such fun at my expense," said Mark drolly.

"Seriously," he said, very obviously not so. "Do you do this every day? A little love pat when you come home from work at night?"

The very thought did make Mark laugh lightly even as he asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You come home, find Bridget waiting, turn her over your knee… Or, ooo, is it only when she's naughty?"

Mark laughed again. "Hugh, I don't even always get to _see_ Bridget every day."

"Is that Holland Park house that big?"

"No," Mark said. "We're not living together." He added _yet_ in his thoughts only; he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to their previous arrangement and be happy with it.

"Oh!" said Hugh in surprise. "Right. You're waiting until you're married." He winked again.

They arrived back to the car park then rose from the vehicle. "Well," said Mark with a smile, holding out his hand to shake. "Thanks again. For everything."

"Always a pleasure." He took his hand, shook, then pulled towards him for a quick, friendly hug. "Hope to see you sooner than a few years next time."

"You're always welcome when you're in town, you know," said Mark. "Like, oh, for the wedding. I'm going to need a best man, after all."

Hugh beamed with a smile. "Aye, aye," said Hugh. "Now get going."

………

Mark stared down to his hand. The last of the capsules remained enclosed in its little plastic and foil shell, the rows of burst foil and collapsed bubbles a testament to the past week. His other hand laid upon her bare back, his fingers sweeping lazily, in a small arc until he raised it to hold the packaging so that he could pop it out of its bubble. After he did, he held out his hand to show her the capsule. "Last one."

"I feel like we should make a speech," she said as she beheld it.

He smiled, closing his hand, bringing it back towards him. "I'm good at speeches. Okay," he began, clearing his throat. "Well, here we are, the last of the glutamine capsules about to be, um, administered."

"I thought you said you were _good_ at speeches," she said teasingly.

He carried on. "It's been a rough week on both of us for very different reasons, but all things considered, aside from a couple of episodes which drove me to despair—" He paused briefly to pat her backside, sweeping his fingers across the skin again. "—Bridget has been a real trouper and I'm very proud of her for what she's had to endure. Let's hope that neither of us ever have to deal with leptospirosis again."

"Hear, hear. I'd applaud if I could. Now let's get this over and done with."

It was the easiest dosage yet, and in no time at all he was rising from her side and washing his hands. As he did so, he reflected on her expression and demeanour—the easy smile on her lips, her closed eyes, her slow and steady breathing—and wondered if he should have perhaps given in sooner to taking her to bed and making love to her. It had obviously taken her mind off of things…

"Tell me, Bridget," he asked upon his return, smirking. "What would you think about to get through that?"

The scarlet stain across her skin, the driving of her face into one of the fluffy pillows spoke volumes, though why she'd be so embarrassed was rather beyond him; it wasn't as if he hadn't been there. He draped his arm across her back.

"As I suspected."

She turned her head, fixing him with a serious gaze. "You have a dirty mind." The set of her chin, the pout on her lips was surprisingly alluring.

"I'd show you just how dirty," he said, "if you didn't need to get up and get dressed."

She looked appropriately confused. "Mark, it's only just after four. A bit early for dinner, wouldn't you say?"

He thought about his brief stop into the salon and spa after returning from Stratford, and grinned. "Who said anything about dinner just yet?"

………

Oh, but the steam felt good. Mark had the steam room all to himself, and he sat there in quite a discomposed fashion, towel about his waist, small rivulets of water making their way down over his body. Though rewarding and necessary, it had been rather hard work taking care of Bridget, and it felt good for the moist heat to penetrate his muscles and relax him completely.

Shortly after Bridget had gone in for her round of appointments, he'd caught a glimpse of himself in the window and had been slightly horrified at the length his hair had gotten to. He'd then gone in to see if there was anyone available to give him a quick trim, and the same woman with whom he'd made Bridget's appointment was still there.

"Oh," she'd said. "Of course, Mr Darcy. It'll just be a few moments. Alan will be back very soon." She'd glanced down at her appointment book, then back up at him. "You know, we have a pool, a sauna, a steam room, if you want to avail yourself."

"Do you?"

She'd nodded. "It would probably do you good after the week you've had."

He knew that it wasn't polite to gossip but he also knew the men and women of the hotel staff weren't blind and that they talked to each other. "Yes, I think I will."

So after having his hair and sideburns trimmed, he'd done a few exhilarating laps in their pool and now found himself here, happily languishing in the steam room.

His thoughts drifted back to the hotel room, to the moment he'd given Bridget the dress he'd picked out, to how much she'd loved it and how much he looked forward to seeing her in it. They didn't have a lot of time left to spend together on their mini-break, but he intended on making the most of it, intended on a proposal of a different sort before they left the grounds of the hotel.

After quickly showering he dressed and went back through the reception area. The young woman behind the counter gave him a smile. "Did that help?"

"Oh, very much, thank you."

"Ms Jones should be done very shortly, if you'd like to wait for her."

He nodded. "That and she doesn't have her own room key."

She smiled again.

Within a few minutes Bridget emerged, and she was veritably glowing, except for the strange look on her own face, like she was trying to figure out what had changed about him. He explained, then said with a broad smile, "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she said demurely. "What do you think of the hair?"

It honestly didn't look much different than it had before, but he didn't think it politic to say so. Instead he opted for a more neutral response: "It looks very nice."

She regarded him as if she were looking through him, or reading his mind. "You don't see a difference, do you?"

_Damn_ , he thought, then offered, "It does look slightly… tamer." He regretted saying it immediately as her look indicated his words had not appeased her. "Before I get myself in deeper trouble, let's go get ready for dinner."

………

Dinner had been a resounding success.

After dinner had been even more so.

He wasn't sure what had come over him, but something about the setting, about how lovely she looked, about how secure and solidified their relationship had seemed to become, had taken hold of him and he'd found himself pouncing on her for a kiss before they'd even made it back to the room.

Not even a comment from one of the chambermaids had stopped him from trying again, and she'd chided him to wait until they got inside. His focus had then become getting her into the room post haste, picking her up bodily and shutting the door behind them while resuming his kiss.

Now, afterwards, he took in deep breaths, trying to regain his equilibrium, while she lie next to him, up against him, still wearing her lovely but very much rumpled silk dress, her lovely coiffure in disarray. Somehow she looked even more stunning; given the choice of this or the black silk and lace camisole, he'd choose this any day. He closed his eyes, lifted his chin, felt her fingers trace over his Adam's apple.

"You were right," she said. He didn't need to look at her to know she was smiling dreamily.

"What?"

"This was a better choice than dessert, after all."

He laughed low in his throat. "Even though you could have rightfully done with the calories," he said, bringing his arm up and around her back, pointedly grasping her too-prominent hip bone.

She made a dismissive clucking sound with her tongue. "Given the choice of having dessert or having you… well, you aren't always so readily available."

He was about to open his mouth and ask her if she'd be interested in changing that arrangement by coming to live with him, but the light touch of her fingers on his abdomen, tracing circles around his navel before taking hold of his own hip, rendered him immediately mute.

"I do think I'll have another helping," she said throatily before descending upon him with another kiss.

………

_2 nd Sunday_

It felt good to sleep without the interruption of a medical regimen, and when he roused he felt well-rested despite being sure he had fallen far short of a full eight hours of sleep. To his surprise, when he opened his eyes, he found that Bridget was already awake, and though her eyes were trained on him she was clearly in her own little world. In fact, she looked rather sad.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Her attention returned to the present and she offered a clearly unfelt smile before explaining with a sigh, "I'm just going to miss seeing so much of you."

"Despite the obvious, this time with you has been exactly what I needed." He cupped her face with his hand and added, "It will be difficult to go back to London, back to our lives." He then took her into his arms.

"Do we have to, though?"

"Go back to our lives? I'm afraid so, darling."

"But we don't have to go back to the way things were." He was about to agree and ask her about living with him when she pushed herself up to look at him properly. "Why don't we live together?" she asked, as if divinely inspired.

His mouth dropped open in surprise. She had anticipated him yet again.

"Hear me out," she continued. "We've already proven we can live together here without driving each other crazy. Well. Not _completely_ crazy, anyway."

He began to laugh, which clearly hurt her feelings: 

"Why are you laughing? Is the thought of living with me that funny?"

"Not remotely so. You've just stolen my thunder from me once more."

He watched as the realisation flitted across her face. "Oh," she said, smiling sheepishly. "Whoops. Sorry." She kissed him. "It is a good idea though."

"Smashing. Best idea you've had yet."

Remembering her desire for a meal under the broad tree by the lake, he asked between a continued round of kisses, "Did you still want your picnic?"

"Mmm, it's a thought," she said. His fingers flitted along her neck, intent for her shoulder then her breast. "It's our last day here and we won't have another chance. Mmm." He hadn't intended on talking her out of it, but passion seized him anew, and eager hands drifted to her waist and hips. As he turned to lie her back against her own pillow, she hardly seemed to mind the persuasion: "Then again, we can have a picnic any old time."

He laughed low in his throat again before reaching for the nightstand. He made a mental note to ring Hugh up and ask him exactly how long after stopping the doxy/glutamine cocktail they'd need to rely on backup birth control, before putting Hugh completely out of his thoughts and devoting every ounce of his attention to his lovely fiancée.

………

"Mark, what's this?"

The way she asked wasn't accusatory or angry, but rather amused, and he was instantly alarmed at what she might have found as he packed up his suitcase in preparation for checking out.

"What's what?"

That's when he saw it: she had his little notebook. His heart dropped down beyond his feet. She was flipping through it page by page. "All of these little notations, and… oh my God, were you writing down all of my temperature readings? And what is this supposed to mean, 'most difficult yet'?"

"Yes, I was writing it all down, in case Hugh asked. You'll note I rather gave up after your fever went away."

"You showed this to Hugh, with this… this… 'near tantrum' business?" she asked heatedly, pointing to one of his more regrettable notations.

"I did, very briefly, but he closed it and looked at me like I was a mental case."

Bridget immediately calmed down and smirked. "I do like your friend Hugh." She closed the notebook, threw it into his bag, then went to place her hands on his hips. "Not as much as I like you, of course."

He grinned, embracing her around the shoulders. "I should hope not. That's my ring you're wearing." He leaned forward and planted a kiss into her blonde tresses. "Come on. Let's go home. We have plans to make."


	6. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

"You got a package. And it's heavy."

Most days, Bridget's answer to his question _How's everything?_ upon his arrival home garnered him a fairly standard response, usually _Everything's fine_ , _I'm exhausted_ , or even on occasion _Richard Finch is Satan incarnate_ , but today's answer kind of caught him off guard.

"A package?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Who is it from?"

"No return address, postmark illegible."

He furrowed his brow.

"Where is it?"

"Over there." She indicated the breakfast bar.

His eyes had travelled right over it upon arriving in the kitchen. It wasn't a package so much as a fairly thick and well-secured brown paper packet with something fairly solid inside, and the handwriting confirmed it was from Hugh. He picked it up and discovered it was heavier than it looked like it should be.

He tore open the seam or at least tried, but couldn't make it through the cellotape. He asked Bridget to bring him a pair of scissors. Within moments she was at his elbow.

"I'm surprised you didn't open it," he said, trying to work out where the seams actually were, as the package had been taped quite solidly.

"Mark, I wouldn't snoop through your mail," Bridget said, looking and sounding offended, even as she eagerly watched what he was doing for the first hint of what it might be, obviously dying to know what it was.

Smirking, he said, "I only meant I have no secrets to keep from you."

She beamed a smile, then admitted, "I thought it might be work-related."

"It's from Hugh. I recognise the handwriting."

"Oh!"

As he worked at the seam with the scissors, he asked, "Why didn't you put it on my desk if you thought it was work-related?"

She looked sheepish. "Your office scares me a little."

He chuckled as he got through the tape at last. On the top was a plain white business envelope. He opened it and found it to be a bill, but… 

"Eleven pounds? That has to be a typo," said Bridget, reading alongside him.

"One pound for services rendered," he read aloud, "and ten pounds for your bet."

She started to laugh, and as infectious as it was, he laughed too. He folded up the bill and set it aside.

"So what's that underneath?"

He pulled away the brown paper and found what appeared to be a wrapped gift beneath it. A small piece of paper folded in half and taped on the fold to the outside served as a note card. Mark unfolded it and read it aloud:

"'Happy housewarming. Use this well as needed.'"

Seeing the excitement on her face and in her eyes, he handed it to her to open. Moments like these delighted him, far more than opening the gift himself could have ever done. She pulled away the copper gift wrap to reveal a shallow box of dark, glossy wood. Within the box, upon a bed of red velvet, lie—

"Oh my God. Mark!" she said, looking up to him, blazing as scarlet as the object itself as she held it up. "He _didn't!_ "

It appeared to Mark that he did. He had purchased them, specifically him, a paddle, and it was not the sort of paddle that was intended for playing badminton with; it was made of gleaming mahogany wood with a red striking surface. He took the thing from her hand; it had a rather impressive heft for the size it was. With a very serious expression, he said, "Well, should I need to keep you in line in future…"

Her mouth fell open into an O. "You wouldn't!"

"Are you disobeying me?" he began teasingly, spinning it in his palm. "Come here, we'll give it a try."

"I'm marrying a sadist!" she squealed as she sprinted away with a giggle. "I always knew you were too good to be true!"

He caught up with her in short order—truth be told, she didn't make much effort to stay away—and he took her in his arms, tapping her bottom lightly with the flat edge of the paddle. As he nuzzled into her ear, he whispered, "I'd never use this on you." As she sighed and her head fell back to give him easier access to her neck, he added, "I'd far prefer my hand to cold, impersonal wood."

She gasped in horror and reared back to look at him. "If I had a pillow right now I'd smother you with it."

"I'll show you smother," he said, then proceeded to take her breath away with a proper kiss.

_The end._


End file.
